His Personal Agenda. Liz FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
like that.’
‘When needs must,’ she said, with a careless shrug.
He barely stopped himself from saying something stupid, something patronising along the lines of How did a delicate little creature like you get involved in something like this? She might look fragile, but he was still feeling the kicks she had given him. Patronising might just get him another one. And this time he would deserve it.
‘Are you planning on chaining yourself to the front door of the cinema?’
She gave him a thoughtful look. ‘That depends on Mr Parker.’ Then, as if to demonstrate that was all she was prepared to say on the subject, she turned and picked up the brandy he had poured for her. She sipped it, then pulled a face and handed it to him. ‘I knew there was a reason I didn’t drink. Here, I think you need this more than I do. Can I make myself a cup of tea?’
‘Help yourself,’ he invited, and she moved across the room to the kettle, busying herself with a cup and a teabag while she waited for it to boil. ‘There are some biscuits in my bag if you’re hungry.’
‘Biscuits?’
‘Chocolate ones. You never know when you’re going to have to miss out on the canapés…’
‘Feel free to go back and help yourself, Crosby,’ she said irritably. ‘I’d hate you to miss out on a free beanfeast.’
He remembered the twenty pounds he’d donated. Hardly free, but he let it pass. ‘You think there’ll be anything left? I imagine the rent-a-mob crowd will have taken the booze and trashed the food.’ Nyssa Blake swore, briefly but comprehensively. ‘Is that the kind of language that they taught you at the school for young ladies you went to?’ he asked. ‘The Sacred Heart, wasn’t it?’ She stared at him. ‘You see, Nyssa, I’ve done my homework on you.’
‘You mean you really are a journalist?’
‘One with a scoop,’ he replied, avoiding the direct lie this time. It was a bit late, but he was doing his best.
‘Oh, sure,’ she said as the kettle boiled. ‘Big story.’ She dropped a teabag into a cup and filled it with water. ‘Nyssa Blake had a cup of tea in my bedroom after a scuffle at the Assembly Rooms. I offered her a biscuit—no, wait—’ she held up a small hand for attention ‘—a chocolate biscuit, but she declined. She drank her tea and left shortly afterwards.’
Matt laughed. ‘You’d better stick to bulldozer-bashing, Nyssa, if that’s the best you can do with this story. You’ll certainly never make a journalist.’
‘I have no wish to be a journalist.’
‘You planned to read English at university,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes, well, there’s not much future in that.’ She discarded the teabag and after a tussle with a tub of milk finally managed to open it and pour it into her tea. Then, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, she said, ‘Okay, so tell me, how would a big freelance journalist like you handle the story?’
She said that as if she still didn’t buy the journalist bit, but Matt, leaving the armchair for Nyssa, ignored the disbelief in her voice and stretched out on the bed. ‘Broadsheet or tabloid?’
‘Oh, let’s go for broke. Give me tabloid.’
He grinned and sipped thoughtfully at the brandy for a moment. ‘How about this. “Tonight, before a room packed with journalists, a daring attempt was made to kidnap Nyssa Blake. The dazzling redhead—”’ Nyssa snorted “‘—the dazzling redhead, twenty-two-year-old stepdaughter of millionaire businessman James Lambert, was grabbed on the point of launching her campaign to stop the destruction of the art deco Gaumont Cinema. Opened in Delvering in 1931 by home-grown silent screen star Doris Catchpole—’” Nyssa reprised the snort, except that this time it came closer to a giggle “‘—the Gaumont is due to be demolished by developers and replaced by a supermarket.’” He took another sip of the brandy. “‘The meeting had only just started when, as the lights dimmed for a slide presentation, the projector was overturned and smashed and Miss Blake was grabbed by an unknown assailant. Matt Crosby, thirty-four, freelance journalist, fought off her attacker and in the confusion carried Miss Blake to safety. Later, comforted by her rescuer in the safety of his hotel bedroom—’”
‘Oh, right, I get it—’
“‘—his hotel bedroom,’” Matt continued firmly, “‘Miss Blake bathed Mr Crosby’s injuries and wept, devastated by what had happened—’”
‘Stop it, Matt Crosby, journalist, aged thirty-four. That’s quite enough.’
‘You didn’t like it?’
‘I’d have to give you an E for effort, I suppose—’
‘Only an E?’
‘That’s all you deserve. You used far too many long sentences for the tabloids. But you’re clearly quite twisted enough to be a journalist. It would definitely be a U for accuracy.’
‘A U?’ he queried.
‘Ungraded.’
‘It’s nothing but the unvarnished truth,’ he protested.
‘Really? What about the fictitious Doris Catchpole?’ she demanded. ‘And when did I weep or say I was devastated by what happened this evening?’
‘Oh, that. Just a little poetic licence.’ He grinned. ‘You wouldn’t want me printing what you actually did say, would you? Not that a family newspaper would actually print the words, just the first letter and then some asterisks, but the great reading public would get the general idea…’
‘I’ll bet they would.’ She gave him a thoughtful look. ‘I don’t think I like you very much, Matt Crosby.’
‘It’s just a job, Nyssa. It’s nothing personal.’ He offered her the brandy glass. ‘Changed your mind about that drink?’
‘Yes. And the interview.’ She abandoned her tea and headed for the door. ‘I can’t say that it’s been nice knowing you…it hasn’t.’ She swept into the tiny vestibule and out of sight. He heard her flip the latch. Then, ‘Oh, hell!’
‘What’s up?’ he asked as she retreated back into his room.
‘There’s a crowd of journalists camped outside my bedroom door.’
‘In a hotel of this quality? I’m shocked.’
Nyssa glared at him. He was having considerable difficulty in keeping a straight face, she realised. ‘No, you’re not,’ she said. ‘You think it’s funny.’
He didn’t deny it. ‘But not entirely unexpected. In fact I seem to remember warning you that it was likely. Of course,’ he said, more soberly, ‘there’s always the possibility that not all of them are journalists. Did they see you?’
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