RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
There was only so much she could do for a decent covert photo―even with a 1000mm mirror lens.
“So, what exactly,” she’d demanded of George, when she’d buttonholed him in his office on the thirtieth floor and wheedled the assignment out of him, “are you expecting from this?”
“Pictures of the happy couple holding hands, bit of snogging maybe,” said the rumpled little man who was her occasional employer, scratching his chin. “Wouldn’t hope for much else. The groom-to-be isn’t so love-struck that he hasn’t twisted a deal with Blackley’s for piccies of the nuptials themselves. They’ll have that chapel sewn up tighter than a fish’s armpit.”
“How much?” Angel perched on the edge of George’s desk, reaching for one of her Turkish cigarettes.
George, a forty-year nicotine addict, yelped “Don’t!” jerking his eyes upwards. “They’ve turned up the sensitivity on the sprinkler system again―bastards.” He nipped the unlit cigarette out of Angel’s fingers and threw it into the filing cabinet behind him. He’d known her long enough to realise she’d light up anyway, just to watch the indoor rain.
“How much is Blackley paying, George?” she asked now, voice husky.
George shivered. That voice went straight through him, plugged into his cerebral cortex and set his nerve endings quivering. She knew exactly what effect it had―even on men a whole lot younger and less susceptible. He was determined it wouldn’t get to him―not this time.
“A mil,” he blurted, to his own dismay. “Look, what’s this to you, Angel? This is no bent judge or perverted politician. Just some pop star and some actress. I thought you hated celebrity fluff? You of all people.”