Free The Betrayed by Kate Kray

Joe Allen’s? I’ll text you my mobile number, just in case anything crops up. So… I’ll see you then.’
    ‘Yes, see you Tuesday.’
    ‘By the way, congratulations. We’re thrilled to have you on board.’
    ‘Thank you’ she said softly. ‘I’m thrilled too.’

    Rosie found it so energizing to be in the heart of the West End again, and it showed – she had a wide, beaming smile stretching from ear to ear. She felt alive and carefree as she strolled confidently through the bustling, cluttered streets of Soho. Everything, from the noise of the traffic to the vibrant mix of people rushing around, was like an electric charge shooting straight through her veins. At long last she didn’t feel like some dolly bird who only turned heads because of her long legs. She was a creditable, recognised actress – or, at least, she would be very soon.
    Rosie wasn’t even nervous about her lunch meeting. On any other day, even the thought of going to see Andrew Brook-Fields would have made her quake. He was, after all, a real big cheese, known to virtually everyone who worked in the media. Thanks to a string of successful dramas, made by Straw/Gold Productions – his own company, with offices in London and Bristol – his name was one of the most highly respected in the business. Knowing that Andrew trusted Rosie with such an important role in his next project was so exhilarating that she couldn’t help but feel good.
    Joe Allen’s is a fashionable restaurant just off Covent Garden, in the heart of theatre land. Rosie found the discreet entrance and looked at her watch – three minutes early. After straightening her clothes she made her way down the cool stairway to the trendy basement, with its exposed brickwork, plastered with show posters, photos, and programmes. She was greeted by the Maître d’.
    ‘Good Afternoon,’ he said. ‘Table for…?’
    ‘No, actually. I’m joining someone, ’Rosie replied, as she handed the cloakroom assistant her coat. ‘I’m not sure if they’re here yet.’
    ‘Ah, I see. What name is the booking under? ‘
    Swelling with pride, Rosie replied, ‘Andrew Brook-Fields.’
    ‘Mr Brook-Fields is already at his table,’ the maître d’ announced.
    The restaurant was buzzing. A delicious, pungent smell of roasted garlic hung in the air, mingling with a burble of mostly male voices. Rosie followed the maître d’, negotiating her way along a path littered with briefcases and laptops. They passed the long bar, which was crowded with journalists, actors, and smartly dressed businessmen with their associates on extended business lunches, sipping Bloody Marys in the soft, hazy lighting. As they approached the table, Andrew Brook-Fields put the menu down and rose to his feet. Rosie’s cheeks flushed pink as her eyes locked with his – they were penetrating, ridiculously brown, and probing her every move.
    ‘Hi!’ he said, leaning forward and kissing Rosie on both cheeks.
    ‘Hi.’
    ‘I think you have just made me the envy of every man in the room!’
    Rosie suspected that, in fact, the opposite was true. Walking towards the table, she noticed that a female diner was occasionally glancing over at Andrew. Not that she could blame her – Andrew Brook-Fields was certainly handsome, with his greying, almost silver, hair. He was well dressed, too; his brown silk shirt was a perfect match to complement his eyes. Rosie wondered if that was a coincidence. Probably not .
    Andrew pulled out Rosie’s chair, flashing her a smile as she sat down. When he smiled, his white teeth looked even more dazzling against his tan, which was so rich that he could almost pass as Mediterranean. He had an unmistakable air of confidence about him, which immediately made Rosie feel relaxed and safe. Being as successful as he was, Rosie thought, he had nothing to prove and, so, no need to waste his time caring about trends or images, or what anybody else might think.
    After they had settled in their seats, the