Free Star Struck by Jane Lovering Page B

to my tonsils for comfort.
    Gethryn’s voice travelled across the space between us and my ears quivered at the sound. ‘Look, I’m only going to stretch my legs. Sitting in that chair is playing havoc with my quads, you know? I’m not going to do a runner, if you stay in the line I’ll be back signing in just a minute …’ Oh, that deep Welsh accent. It poured into my ears like a molten love-letter. I wanted to hug every word to my chest, to memorise every intonation, but I didn’t even dare to raise my gaze from the ghastly reception-area carpet. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Gethryn marching his way through the crowd, preceded by several large clipboard-carrying men who wore headsets and luminous Security vests. As he drew level with where Felix and I cowered, the crowd in front was as thick as the crowd behind and one of the guards had to go on ahead to forge a path, leaving Gethryn stationary opposite us.
    He turned his head and met my eye.
    In that second there was no crowd. No guards, no walkie-talkies, no shouting. Just Gethryn Tudor-Morgan, a stray wisp of hair fluttering in an unfelt breeze, gazing at me with his pure white shirt open at the neck to show a silver chain against his smooth skin. He was beautiful. From the soft expression in his amber eyes to the artful highlights in his flicked hair, he was poster-perfect. I was frozen with longing for him, until a sly burp rippled up to scald my back teeth with a wave of acidic saliva, which made my eyes water.
    Sound rushed in, followed by movement and Gethryn being hustled on towards the doors. Just before the crowd filled the space between us again, he half-turned in my direction and dropped me the tiniest, cheekiest little wink you have ever seen, and my knickers would have erupted if I hadn’t been feeling like a pile of second-hand crap.
    Oh, and so embarrassed about the whole vomit-stained thing that I wanted to die.
    â€˜I think he fancy you.’ Antonio, a burly Hispanic guy with a receding hairline which was about to meet an increasing neckline, nudged me. ‘You be good girl and he maybe buy you drink.’
    The retch that this thought engendered sent another dribble to join the stains already ornamenting my front, but at least we were moving towards the lift by then.

Chapter Eight
    â€˜Well, that was fun. No, not fun, what’s that other thing? Yeah, pathetic .’ Lissa stomped around the room and Jack thought how much she resembled an angry stick insect. She turned her back on him and rested her hands on her hips, her shoulder-blades sticking out behind her like spines, her whole body all angles. ‘And why are you laughing? This ain’t no laughing matter, Jackie, ’cos if she decides to take this to the press …’
    â€˜What, getting sick-drunk in my room? Hardly headline material is it, even out here.’ And anyway he hadn’t been laughing at that, he’d been laughing at the thought that making love to Lissa had been like shagging a set-square. He shook his head, wondering why he’d ever done it, why he’d ever found that underfed-rabbit look attractive. The humour died as he remembered why, remembered all the things that had come associated with dating Lissa, all those things that had almost cut through his famed detachment. Fear, of the world, of himself , trying to forget who he was and what he’d done and the running, the endless fucking running. And then the pain. ‘Mind you, in this place it probably makes the papers when a cow craps.’
    â€˜You would be surprised.’ Lissa rummaged in her bag for her phone and checked it quickly for messages. ‘You wanna know why I really came schlepping over to this God-forsaken corner that’s got more dust than my Aunt Effie’s shelving unit? I came ’cos I’m worried about you. That last meet we had, you were wound tighter than I’ve ever seen you and this last