Chapter One
“ Hugo Boss. You smell good.”
I flashed a cheeky smile at the six-foot-two slice of pure hunk standing in front of me as I nervously attached the 50mm portrait lens to my camera.
“ Dahlia Noir, right?” he grinned back. “Givenchy. You smell gorgeous, too.”
I felt my cheeks flush at the compliment and giggled a little before looking up and extending my hand. “I’m Amy.”
"Amy Reid," he smiled, shaking it. His grip was firm but not too tight – respectful, almost. He placed his other palm on the back of my hand as he shook it and I felt a little tingle run up my arm, all the way to the back of my neck where the hairs stood up on end. "You're a great photographer. I love your work, especially the black and white stuff. I'm Rick."
"Don't worry, I know who you are," I laughed. "No introduction required. And thanks for the compliment."
He released my hand and stood back, hands on hips. "You're welcome."
"How did you know which perfume I was wearing?"
He narrowed his eyebrows and leaned forward, talking quietly. "I'm very interested in cosmetics. You might not know this to look at me, but don't be deceived. If the music thing goes to shit, I can always get a job on one of the counters in Macy's."
I started giggling. "Or Harrods. You're in London now, you know."
He held up his hands. "Excuse me. Forgot about that. As long as the pay is decent, I'll be there."
Everybody I'd spoken to had been right. Rick Borrell, international megastar and lead singer of Beautiful Losers, was every inch the charmer I had been led to believe. He was also absolutely gorgeous – better looking in the flesh than in his photographs, not that I thought that would have been possible. He was on perfect form today, his dark hair slightly ruffled and with a little stubble enhancing that already handsome face. I was going to have to be careful, maintain a modicum of professionalism. But it wasn't going to be easy. As he positioned himself against the white photographic backdrop and flashed another sexy smile my way, I knew I was putty in his hands.
Keep it together, Amy , I thought. He wouldn't be interested in you anyway.
"So who's interviewing me? I hope it's you."
I looked through my viewfinder and focused before firing off a test shot. "Why do you say that?" I asked. "Think I'll go easy on you?"
"No, not at all. Like I said, I love your photos. You took some recently of The Vaccines, right?"
I nodded. "Yup."
"They were cool. Very raw. They looked like they were taken by someone who actually gives a shit about music."
"I do," I replied, moving closer. "It's my life. It's everything."
His beautiful blue eyes sparkled and widened as I spoke. He paused, then a warm smile washed over his face. "I thought so. So, are you doing the interview or not? Because if it's not you, I'm going to demand that it is."
"Oh dear. You're not going to throw a rock star tantrum, are you?" I teased.
"Absolutely. I'll stomp my foot and everything. And if my demands aren't met, I'm going to pick you up, throw you over my shoulder, march us to my hotel and make you watch as I trash the room, like all good rock stars do."
I couldn't stop giggling now, my attempts at cool rebuttals and smart responses beginning to wane. I kept snapping away as he spoke, snatching intimate moments of him smiling and laughing. "Throw me over your shoulder, eh? I'm a little too big for that. I might give you a slipped disc. You wouldn't be able to stand or do anything for six months and you'd hate me forever."
"Well, now, just stop there for a moment."
I lowered my camera and looked at him, his expression changing to one of curiosity.
"Firstly, I don't want to be responsible for doing anything that could make me hate you forever. Not when our obvious love affair has only just begun."
I smiled nervously and pushed a loose strand of my long red hair behind my ear.
"Secondly, don't you make any of those silly comments about yourself. If you don't know
“ Hugo Boss. You smell good.”
I flashed a cheeky smile at the six-foot-two slice of pure hunk standing in front of me as I nervously attached the 50mm portrait lens to my camera.
“ Dahlia Noir, right?” he grinned back. “Givenchy. You smell gorgeous, too.”
I felt my cheeks flush at the compliment and giggled a little before looking up and extending my hand. “I’m Amy.”
"Amy Reid," he smiled, shaking it. His grip was firm but not too tight – respectful, almost. He placed his other palm on the back of my hand as he shook it and I felt a little tingle run up my arm, all the way to the back of my neck where the hairs stood up on end. "You're a great photographer. I love your work, especially the black and white stuff. I'm Rick."
"Don't worry, I know who you are," I laughed. "No introduction required. And thanks for the compliment."
He released my hand and stood back, hands on hips. "You're welcome."
"How did you know which perfume I was wearing?"
He narrowed his eyebrows and leaned forward, talking quietly. "I'm very interested in cosmetics. You might not know this to look at me, but don't be deceived. If the music thing goes to shit, I can always get a job on one of the counters in Macy's."
I started giggling. "Or Harrods. You're in London now, you know."
He held up his hands. "Excuse me. Forgot about that. As long as the pay is decent, I'll be there."
Everybody I'd spoken to had been right. Rick Borrell, international megastar and lead singer of Beautiful Losers, was every inch the charmer I had been led to believe. He was also absolutely gorgeous – better looking in the flesh than in his photographs, not that I thought that would have been possible. He was on perfect form today, his dark hair slightly ruffled and with a little stubble enhancing that already handsome face. I was going to have to be careful, maintain a modicum of professionalism. But it wasn't going to be easy. As he positioned himself against the white photographic backdrop and flashed another sexy smile my way, I knew I was putty in his hands.
Keep it together, Amy , I thought. He wouldn't be interested in you anyway.
"So who's interviewing me? I hope it's you."
I looked through my viewfinder and focused before firing off a test shot. "Why do you say that?" I asked. "Think I'll go easy on you?"
"No, not at all. Like I said, I love your photos. You took some recently of The Vaccines, right?"
I nodded. "Yup."
"They were cool. Very raw. They looked like they were taken by someone who actually gives a shit about music."
"I do," I replied, moving closer. "It's my life. It's everything."
His beautiful blue eyes sparkled and widened as I spoke. He paused, then a warm smile washed over his face. "I thought so. So, are you doing the interview or not? Because if it's not you, I'm going to demand that it is."
"Oh dear. You're not going to throw a rock star tantrum, are you?" I teased.
"Absolutely. I'll stomp my foot and everything. And if my demands aren't met, I'm going to pick you up, throw you over my shoulder, march us to my hotel and make you watch as I trash the room, like all good rock stars do."
I couldn't stop giggling now, my attempts at cool rebuttals and smart responses beginning to wane. I kept snapping away as he spoke, snatching intimate moments of him smiling and laughing. "Throw me over your shoulder, eh? I'm a little too big for that. I might give you a slipped disc. You wouldn't be able to stand or do anything for six months and you'd hate me forever."
"Well, now, just stop there for a moment."
I lowered my camera and looked at him, his expression changing to one of curiosity.
"Firstly, I don't want to be responsible for doing anything that could make me hate you forever. Not when our obvious love affair has only just begun."
I smiled nervously and pushed a loose strand of my long red hair behind my ear.
"Secondly, don't you make any of those silly comments about yourself. If you don't know
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