Free The Ex Factor by Laura Greaves Page B

has one arm cinched around my waist while the other hand caresses my cheek. Funny, I was so consumed by the electric sensation of his soft lips touching mine that I barely noticed the way he held me. It’s surreal to see it there in front of me, as if I’m looking at someone else. Not many people get to see what their first kiss with a new guy looks like from an outsider’s perspective.
    ‘Ohmigod,’ Frankie breathes. ‘Kitty, this was taken on our street! You only managed to get a few metres down the road before you had your tongue down his throat?’ If I’m not mistaken, there’s definite pride in her voice.
    ‘If you want to get technical about it, he actually had
his
tongue down
my
throat.’
    Frankie shakes her head and looks at me admiringly. ‘Well, well. My sister and the movie star. I didn’t think you had it in you.’
    I flash what I hope is an enigmatic smile.
    ‘So did you?’ Frankie asks.
    ‘Did I what?’
    ‘Have it in you?’
    ‘Frankie!’
    ‘Oh, don’t play coy with me, Kitty! After all the hand-holding and the romantic beach walk and the public displays of affection. You slept with him, didn’t you?’
    ‘No, I didn’t.’ I can tell by the look on her face she thinks that’s about as believable as a genuine Philippe Starck Ghost chair popping up on eBay. ‘Honestly, Frank. I’d tell you if I had. Actually, I probably wouldn’t have to bother – you’d be able to read about it right here.’
    I’m telling her the truth. There was definitely no hanky-panky last night. After we swam, we grabbed a quick beer at the local pub and then I took Mitchell to my favourite local restaurant, where I insisted (despite Mitchell’s protests) that Mack join us to eat. The man had been good enough to carry a pair of shoes for Mitchell all the way from the car; I wasn’t about to let him starve. But his presence at the table did preclude much deep and meaningful conversation. When we weren’t being interrupted by a steady stream of Mitchell’s fans – all female, I noted with a weirdly peevish feeling – we mostly talked about his crazy life in Hollywood and his work on
Solitaire
(he thinks Alphonse du Renne is psychotic, too), as well as my job. It was fun, but hardly deeply romantic.
    It wasn’t until he walked me home – and Mack retreated to the four-wheel drive – that I was able to ask Mitchell the question that had been burning in my mind all night.
    ‘So,’ I began as we stood on my verandah, Mitchell’s arms looped loosely around my waist. Night had set by now and the paparazzi were long gone; no doubt they’d had to race back to their mothers’ spare bedrooms to send their shots to the papers before deadline.
    ‘So,’ he said softly.
    ‘Do you mind if I ask you a . . . a personal question?’
    ‘Sure,’ he said, but I felt him tense slightly.
    I took a deep breath. I knew I had no business asking what I was about to ask. But I also knew I had to ask it anyway, or go crazy wondering.
    ‘What happened between you and Vida Torres?’
    No sooner had the words left my lips than I regretted them. My question hung in the air between us like a noxious gas. Mitchell took a step away from me.
    ‘I’m sorry. Forget it. It’s none of my business.’ Who did I think I was, getting so nosy so quickly? Previous relationships – and definitely the Big Heartbreaks – are something you cover when you’re serious about someone, not after one date with a guy (and his bodyguard) who’ll be on the other side of the planet in a month’s time.
    ‘No, it’s fine,’ Mitchell replied tersely. ‘I’d rather you hear it from me than believe the bullshit they spin in those supermarket rags.’
    He sat down at the edge of the verandah and patted the whitewashed timber next to him. I sat, too.
    ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t really know what happened,’ he said wearily. ‘I thought Vida and I were really solid. We met in Brazil, on a photo shoot for some fashion