Undercover, page 2
As if to prove her point he moved one hand, his fingertips teasing the curve where her waist flared into her hips but not daring any lower. His other hand rose to cup her chin and tilt her face up to his, giving his tongue even deeper access.
She crossed her wrists behind his neck, savoring every motion of his lips, basking in the heat of his body. Her nipples ached and she pressed into his chest, wanting him to feel the hard points, to see how he’d tantalised them to stiffness beneath her halter-necked gown.
He got the message. He slid his palm down the curve of her ass, then pulled her closer so firmly she teetered on her high heels.
She smiled into the kiss, liking that little taste of the dominance he’d kept in check until now. She also liked the not-so-little erection jutting against her abdomen.
She liked it so much, she decided to touch it.
Belt unbuckled, zipper lowered. She plunged her hand through two layers of cloth to wrap her fingers around his hard, hot length. Asher broke off their kiss with a gasp as she squeezed him, her own mouth dropping open on an involuntary moan as she registered his size. She pressed closer, trapping her hand between their two bodies, unabashedly pushing up to her tiptoes so the heel of her palm brushed her clit every time she pushed her fingers to his base.
He grabbed her wrist and stilled her hand, drawing a ragged breath. She expected him to speak—imagined him begging her to stop, or demanding she continue. She was deciding which would be sexier—tough call—when what sounded like nearby footsteps froze both of them in place.
“Is someone coming?” she whispered, breathless with both fear and giddy excitement at potentially being discovered.
“No one’s coming here,” Asher said breezily, but she felt the hesitation in his body, the lift of his chin as he paused to listen.
The voice that had been regularly booming through the sound system in the distant ballroom grew louder, but the words were still too muffled to understand. Applause followed, louder than Ada would’ve expected given how far into the bowels of the building they seemed to be buried. This was a remote, inaccessible passageway nowhere near the stage.
Wasn’t it?
The curtain moved.
She jerked in shock, instinctively releasing poor Asher’s still-throbbing erection to clutch his lapels. He put a protective arm across her shoulders but before they could do more than swap bewildered glances the curtain moved again, kept moving, until she realised with dawning dismay that it was too late to run—too late to do anything but pray this was some backstage technical magic and that layers and layers of curtains still separated them from the awards ceremony.
The sound of applause grew louder at the same rate that bright light spilled into the expanding gap between what turned out to be two curtains, sweeping apart.
She froze, unable to blink, too afraid to breathe, a horrified chill settling over every inch of her flesh. She stared at the view beyond the thick fabric, her brain screaming at her to run away, her body obstinately refusing to budge.
A ballroom packed with hundreds of journalists stared back.
Chapter Two
Asher blamed his brother.
“Just stay until you get your award.” With that single sentence Ebon, the youngest and most annoyingly rational of the three Brody brothers, had ended the hour-long argument between Asher and their older brother, Oren.
Ebon’s suggestion satisfied the two ends of their argument: Oren’s insistence that the London Phoenix, the recently revived newspaper they co-owned, needed all the publicity it could get, and Asher’s desire to slowly ease back into the London social scene after nine globetrotting years as a foreign correspondent.
Standing with his fly open in full view of the most important people in the news industry was not the gradual reentry he’d had in mind.
He squinted into the bright lights and just managed to spot Ebon at their table in the front row, eyes wide and jaw hanging. Next to him Oren was a study in tension, his brow furrowed, lips thinned to a tight line.
This was your bloody idea, he wanted to shout.
Instead he called up his warzone-honed self-control to carefully compartmentalise the mixture of humiliation and panic roiling in his stomach. Then he plastered on the calm, even smile that worked on everyone from corporate investors to violent dictators as he subtly maneuvered Ada in front of him, using a second’s concealment to shove his undiminished erection back into his trousers and yank the zipper closed.
He pivoted, intending to hastily escort Ada from the stage, but found himself face-to-face with the ceremony’s emcee. Roberta Moore was a seasoned presenter and comedienne whom he’d chatted to at some length during the pre-ceremony event for nominees, but she started with surprise as she registered the unexpected guests on the stage.
Asher silently begged Roberta to quietly let them make their escape, but as her expression shifted from shocked to mischievous, he knew their embarrassment was only beginning.
“All right.” Roberta rolled her eyes. “You can help hand out the awards, but I’m not cutting you in on the fee. Got it?”
The audience chuckled lightly at Roberta’s remark, but while her joke eased the strain in the room, the space between Asher’s shoulder blades pulled tighter every second. He couldn’t see Ada’s face beyond the glossy black sheen of her hair, nor could he meet her large, espresso-brown eyes, but her body trembled beneath his hands. He was the idiot who’d gotten her into this mess. He had to get her out of it as quickly as he could.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it appears that Asher Brody has been away from London for so long, he got lost on the way to his seat.”
Asher shrugged in self-deprecation as Roberta’s smile expanded in proportion to the audience’s laughter. He was about to make a wry, parting remark—which he would’ve thought of eventually—but before he could speak Roberta lowered the microphone to Ada.
“Apologies, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Roberta Moore.” She extended her hand.
“Ada Hunter. It’s a pleasure, Roberta. I’ve seen your stand-up. It’s funny.” Her voice was clear and confident as she returned the presenter’s handshake, and Asher caught a few people in the front row grinning approvingly.
Despite everything, he smiled. He should’ve known she wasn’t the type to need rescuing.
“I won’t argue with a positive review. You obviously have impeccable taste.” Roberta swept a suggestive, exaggerated gaze up and down Asher’s body. A number of women in the audience whistled their agreement but he shook his head, already imagining rival journalists taking to social media with accusations of pretty-boy preening.
“Don’t stroke his ego,” Ada advised, slipping her arm possessively around his elbow. “That’s my job.”
The audience’s laughter grew warmer and more raucous. Ada was winning them over. He exhaled slightly, his anxiety easing. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a catastrophe after all.
“I wouldn’t dare.” Roberta’s gaze darted between the two of them. “But I have to be honest. If you have in fact managed to wrestle Asher Brody off the market, I’m not sure whether to congratulate you or kill you while you sleep.”
Ada’s smile never faltered, but he caught the glimmer of alarm in her eyes—in part because it reflected the distress siren clanging between his ears.
As far as everyone in the news industry was concerned, he and Ada were dating. How the hell could he prove otherwise without coming across like a complete knob? He supposed he could grab the microphone—and say what?
Hi everyone, thanks for your interest, but I just wanted to clarify we’re not dating at all, in fact we’ve only known each other for about fifteen minutes. I thought I had a shot at a kiss, maybe even a little grope—look at her, you can’t blame me for trying—and she was well up for it. If it weren’t for my poor navigational skills and the even poorer signposting in this venue—and let me pause to say the hotel management really should reexamine their health and safety compliance, because there’s no way two guests should end up backstage without—
“So it’s official?” Roberta’s voice cut through his racing thoughts, her eyebrows raised. “Asher Brody is spoken for?”
Ada looked up at him, her expression clearly trying to tell him something, though he couldn’t figure out what. His mind spun as he tried to interpret her position. He didn’t know her well enough to guess the impact of a yes or no answer. He didn’t know her at all.
Out of nowhere he thought of Ros. He wondered where she was, and whether she’d see this.
Maybe she’d tune in specially to catch a glimpse of him, leaning over a grainy live feed on her laptop. She’d wear headphones to muffle the noise of distant gunfire, or ocean waves, or a whining mountain wind, or horses nickering to each other across a grassy field.
Maybe she’d be alone, the footage an intimacy, her breath catching as he appeared onstage. Maybe she’d be with someone else, tilting the screen to keep the video secret, then slamming it shut with the assurance that what she’d been watching wasn’t important, hadn’t been important for a long time.
Maybe she’d already forgotten him.
He hoped she saw this. Hoped she watched it in full high-definition glory, trapped in some sterile hotel room on some inane assignment, ruing the day she left him, jealous of Ada’s easy charm, twisting with desperate regret.
He glanced at Roberta, then looked straight into the camera at the foot of the stage.
“It’s true.” He shoved aside the regret and self-disgust and still-raw pain that reared up whenever he thought about his ex to offer the most dazzling smile he could muster. Then he slung his arm around Ada’s waist and pulled her in tightly.
“I’m all hers.”
*
Roberta took pity on them, making only two more jokes before allowing them to leave the stage. With her knees wobbling and her heart still racing, Ada was grateful when Asher offered his hand to help her down the stairs on the side of the stage.
Descending from the bright lights to the dimness at floor level offered some sense of privacy, but as she and Asher walked side-by-side along the front of the maze of tables, she knew most eyes were on them instead of on Roberta’s wry monologue.
She squeezed his hand when they reached her table, signaling that this was her stop. He withdrew a business card from his pocket and pressed it into her palm.
“Text me,” he whispered, then continued to his own seat in the row ahead of hers.
She eased into her chair, studiously avoiding the curious gazes of the people sitting alongside her. Most of the guests were seated according to their employers, with one table for each newspaper, channel, website or radio station. Because she was technically self-employed, and scraped together funding for her documentaries as and when she could get it, she’d landed on the Independent Media table, as proclaimed by the cardboard placard in the center.
Thus far the introverted, eccentric and only vaguely employed personalities at her table hadn’t provided the networking opportunities she’d imagined when she’d prodded a friend to get her an invite, but that would all change now.
If being outed as Asher Brody’s girlfriend didn’t get her the interest she needed, nothing would.
A frisson of exhilaration shimmied up through her rib cage as she looked at the card he’d handed her. Plain white, with two lines of black text above a phone number.
Asher Brody
Reporter
She couldn’t stop her smile at the minimalist job description as she dug her phone out of her purse and typed in the number, careful to keep the screen hidden in a fold of the tablecloth. He’d brought unprecedented glory to one of the UK’s national newspapers with years of foreign reporting, and now he was the co-owner of another equally significant publication.
She hoped his decision to keep both of those facts off the business card was a genuine sign of a low ego and not the world’s most obnoxious humblebrag.
She tapped his number to open a text message window. She hesitated, thumb over the keyboard, and pretended to watch Roberta introduce the first award of the evening as she considered her next move.
Her initial freak-out at being discovered mid-grope had slowly dissipated, replaced by a burgeoning sense of possibility. She wasn’t sure why Asher opted to announce their relationship instead of trying to downplay the incident, and she wasn’t sure she cared.
Her current documentary project was almost finished and already booked into a film festival next month, but despite its early accolades she was painfully short on the money she needed to start the next one. Her upcoming film hinged on her riding along with a charitable mission convoy in Somalia, and if she didn’t land in Mogadishu in exactly three weeks’ time, they’d leave without her.
She needed publicity, specifically the kind of next-big-thing hype she could convert into cold, hard cash. Asher already had that in spades, so she needed to find a way to be his girlfriend long enough for it to rub off.
No pressure, she thought dryly as she looked down at the screen. Just a text message that could make or break her career. No big deal at all.
Hi. She hit send.
It’s Ada, she added hastily, belatedly, cursing her total lack of game. She’d probably screwed this up already.
I figured, he replied. Are you okay?
Of course, why wouldn’t I be?
Because the whole world thinks we’re a couple?
She smiled. Hate to burst your bubble, but the whole world doesn’t watch journalism awards. Anyway, is it such a big deal? Funny and embarrassing but not exactly the scandal of the century.
She put down her phone to politely applaud for the recipient of the award for Best Commodities Story. When she picked it up again it blinked with a new message.
You’re right, it won’t be a big deal. Hopefully by Monday everyone will have forgotten.
She frowned at the screen. She didn’t want anyone to forget, at least not until she’d had the chance to tag along to any networking events he might have lined up in the next couple of weeks.
It might be fun to play along for a while. She added a winking emoji.
Why? The single word arrived fast and hard.
She bit her lower lip, trying to think of an excuse other than wanting to piggyback on his profile.
She could only come up with one probable reason.
Because you’re sexy and I like you.
They were seated with their backs to each other, and she cast a quick glance over her shoulder after she hit send. Asher’s head tilted down, and her heart tripped at the sight of the strip of tanned skin between his hairline and his collar. His scent lingered vividly in her mind, and she had an almost overpowering desire to taste that soft, warm place on his neck.
She couldn’t read anything from the unmoving shape of his back, whether he thought her text was funny, ridiculous or totally immature. She tried to focus on the list of nominees for the next award while she waited for him to reply, but after a few seconds she couldn’t resist dropping her gaze to her phone.
You don’t know me well enough to like me, he’d responded.
She narrowed her eyes. First he told the world they were dating, now he played hard to get.
Men.
You make a good first impression, she sent back.
He didn’t reply.
She exhaled heavily, her options seeming fewer by the second. Asher was a smart guy. She wouldn’t outmaneuver him, and she certainly wouldn’t coerce him into something if he wasn’t willing. But the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to seize this opportunity, and maybe the best way to get him was to tell him that straight out.
She inhaled, bracing herself, then typed rapidly, her thoughts running faster than her thumbs.
Look, I don’t know how much Grace told you about me, if anything. I’ve only been in London a couple of months. Grace was my landlady and my flatmate, but we became good friends, too. I moved here from Houston to make a documentary.
That’s what I do, she added. I make documentaries.
Anyway, I’m wrapping on my current project and ready to start the next one, only I’m short on cash. I need to be in Somalia by a particular date or the whole plan will go belly-up. I know you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but everyone else in the media industry knows you, and now they know me as your girlfriend.
She paused, figuring out how exactly to phrase her plea.
His response came before she’d chosen the first word.
You want to pose as my girlfriend at industry events so I can introduce you to the big funders.
She blinked. Then grinned. No fooling this one.
Yup! She added a rosy-cheeked smiley face.
No.
She frowned at the screen. Not a word she was used to hearing.
Why not?
Because I try to avoid industry events at all costs. Not to mention I only met you fifteen minutes ago.
Google me.
She sipped from the glass of champagne beside her plate, then leaned back and folded her arms. She knew what he’d find.
Accolades upon accolades for her break-through documentary, which revisited a criminal case in her hometown of Shreveport and led to the exoneration of a man on death row just days before his execution.
She may not have the gravitas and industry pull of a seasoned war reporter, but she didn’t lack credibility, either.
She took another sip, applauded the winner for Best Local Headline, then checked her phone.
What was your last film about? he’d asked.
Eastern European women sex-trafficked to the UK.
Heavy stuff. Good on you for tackling it. The answer’s still no.
She stuck out her lower lip. Give me one good reason.
No one will believe it.
Why not?
Trust me, they won’t. Anyway, I’m not the right person to be the public face of anything. Even if I could bring myself to attend one of those awful simper-fests, I’d probably fall out with someone and bankrupt your project. I leave the fundraising to my brothers.
