The Little Teashop in Tokyo by Julie Caplin Page 0,83

yes.’

‘Maybe I can get a shot of industry and nature,’ mused Fiona and Gabe kissed her.

‘Stop thinking about it. A picture will come. And there’ll be plenty of opportunities. Now, did I tell you I’ve managed to book a surprise tomorrow evening? You’re going to love it.’ Again, those eyes danced wickedly.

Her eyes widened.

‘Yes. Nine o’clock. Tomorrow evening.’

‘That’s …’ her voice was still strangled. He kissed her again.

‘I’ll be gentle with you. I promise.’

She lifted her chin. He wasn’t having this all his own way. She might be inexperienced but she wasn’t without guts. Gabe had called her a Valkyrie after all. ‘The thing is … will I be gentle with you?’

Chapter 20

Fiona had never been a clothes person and now she was panicking about what to wear this evening. Gabe had her dropped at the door to her room at five o’clock with another of those long lingering sexy kisses that promised so much before he withdrew with another smouldering smile and sauntered off to his room.

She deliberately didn’t watch him go; he was too damn sure of himself. The bugger knew he was gorgeous. And in big demand. He had a conference call booked with a magazine in Tokyo to discuss a few upcoming shoots and some work to do, all of which reminded her that he was a hugely successful photographer and in some ways a minor celebrity in his own right. He was used to mixing with the rich, famous and super glamorous.

Oh heck, what was she going to wear? She stared at her hopelessly inadequate wardrobe lying pathetically in front of her in her case, as if mere staring might magic up a new addition.

She rummaged through it trying to remember everything she’d packed and dislodged a pale blue camisole vest. Avril. She grinned. Avril had insisted on a shopping expedition and she’d put the new items at the bottom of her case and completely forgotten about them, perhaps because they weren’t the sort of things she’d normally wear.

There was the navy-blue linen jumpsuit, belted at the waist, which she thought made her look like a plumber’s assistant but Avril had insisted if she wore it with a cami underneath and a few buttons left open, would look like a sexy ninja girl along with a butter-soft khaki leather jacket, which Fiona secretly adored but she’d never dared wear because it was the sort of thing that other girls, with hot dates like Gabe, wore.

She shook out the jumpsuit and hung it on a hanger in the bathroom. It wasn’t too badly creased and a steamy shower should help. Next she reviewed the leather jacket, trying it on and peering over her shoulder at her reflection in the mirror trying to channel sexy vibes. The jacket was great, but she wasn’t sure about herself, though she really wanted to look like the sort of girl Gabe would be seen with.

A quick shower revived her and she focused on drying her hair, before changing into the new outfit. The butterflies were gathering in her chest like swallows at sunset and when she finally dared look in the mirror they took off with a great rush. With a smile she nodded at herself; for once she did look like the sort of girl who wore leather jackets. Through judicious wielding of her brush and the hairdryer, she’d managed to achieve curls in her hair and the touch of mascara, smoky eye shadow, and rose-pink lipstick – the sum total of her limited make-up arsenal – made her seem … well, quite striking really. Those butterflies were going berserk now. Was she really doing this?

Gabe’s sharp knock at the door made her jump. She gave herself one last check in the mirror. ‘You’re doing this. Warrior Princess. Valkyrie,’ she mouthed at her own image, lifting her chin before she turned and snatched up her bag and the new leather jacket.

***

Dealing with publicists and their neurotic clients was enough to wind anyone up and Gabe had just finished the last phone call of the day. Despite being a good size, this hotel room felt small and claustrophobic and he was about ready to punch someone. He’d left himself ten minutes to shower which he desperately needed to wash away some of the frustration. Why did publicists think that bloody hotel rooms or suites were the only place for a photo shoot? Didn’t anyone want originality these days? He’d spent the last half hour trying to persuade the PR girl