Secrets of the Rich & Famous
Join me, journalist Jen Brown (aka Little Miss Ordinary), as I research my next article: can anyone bag a Chelsea millionaire if she looks the part?I'm discovering that glossy, I-haven’t-spent-any-time-on-my-appearance look isn't quick… To make sure I can fake it with the best of them at the whirlwind of intimidatingly glam Christmas parties, I've blagged myself a secret weapon: the help of genuine billionaire and deliciously gorgeous film director, Alex Hammond.His bone-melting kisses do count as helping, right?
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âI could do with a new approach, Iâll admit,â she said slowly. âSo how about we strike a deal?â
âGo on,â he said slowly.
âWhat I need right now is an adviser. To help me get my article back on track. Someone who knows the world Iâm writing about and can give me a few pointers.â
He stared at her.
âYou want me to help you trick some unsuspecting millionaire into thinking youâre a rich socialite?â
âIn a nutshell, yes. But not in a direct way. I just want to be able to ask your opinion on a few things, thatâs all. Clothes, locationsâthat kind of thing.â
There was something so alluring about herâand it messed with his body, not just with his mind. Her upturned face was imploring, the blue eyes clear.
âIâm no threat to you. I honestly have no interest in making trouble for you. And weâre not that different. You told me you started out with ideas above your station and thatâs what Iâve got. I just need this chance.â
He looked into the pleading blue eyes. He must be mad.
CHARLOTTE PHILLIPS has been reading romantic fiction since her teens, and she adores upbeat stories with happy endings. Writing them for Mills & Boon>® is her dream job.
She combines writing with looking after her fabulous husband, two teenagers, a four-year-old and a dachshund. When something has to give, itâs usually housework.
She lives in Wiltshire.
For my family, with love and thanks.
Table of Contents
How To Marry A Millionaire In Ten Easy Steps
by Jennifer Brown
If you canât earn it, marry it!
Champagne receptions, exotic locations, sumptuous food and designer everything. This is the world of the rich and famous, but is it a world of hype? A rich façade which can be infiltrated by following a few rules, wearing the right clothes? Or is there more to snaring one of the UKâs most eligible bachelors than a makeover and a pair of fake designer heels?
No rich man will look twice at a woman he believes to be after his money, so to fit into the world of the rich you must look as if you belong there. You must seem like his equal, as if you have money and a beautiful life of your own.
Join me on my undercover mission to find out if an ordinary Miss High Street like me, with a day job and a mortgage, can reinvent herself on a budget to join the world of the beautiful people and win the ultimate prize: the heart of a millionaire!
Rule #1: Move to the right postcode, even if you have to live in a shack
JEN BROWN stood rigid behind the bedroom door in the dark, arm raised, the vase in her hand poised to be broken over the intruderâs head the second he entered the room. As the door swung open one last thought dashed through her mind before cold panic set in and impulse took over. She wished, not for the first time this week, that she was back in her motherâs cottage in the country, where you could leave your door on the latch all night and still not be murdered in your bed.
A state-of-the-art security system and a massive front door was apparently not enough to guarantee that here in Chelsea.
As the door opened and the light snapped on she leapt with a yell from her hiding place and swung the vase with every ounce of her strength. If this were a movie she would have knocked him out with one crash and then waited smugly for the police to arrive and pat her on the back. But this was reality. And she wasnât movie heroine material.
And so it was that before she could connect vase with scalp, before she had the chance so much as to kick the man in the shins, she was soaring backwards through the air to land with a thump on her own bed. Her wrists were immediately held in an iron grip on either side of her head, and as the intruder loomed above her she drew in a lungful of air and screamed as long and as loudly as she could.
She surprised herself with how loudly, in fact. He recoiled a little at the sound, his face catching the light, and she realised with a flash of disbelief just who she was staring at. Last seen yesterday morning on the front of her newspaper, in the flesh he looked even more gorgeous but a lot angrier.
Sheâd just tried to crack the skull of the most influential figure in British film-making.
âCalm down, Iâm not going to hurt you!â he shouted over her, exasperation lacing the deep voice.
Famous or not, he had her pinned to the bed, so she ignored him and began to suck in another enormous breath.
He took advantage of the break. âDrop the damn vase and Iâll let you go!â
His dark green eyes were just a couple of inches above her own. The sharp woody scent of his expensive aftershave invaded her senses. Hard muscle was contoured against her body as he used his legs to pin her down effortlessly. She struggled, trying everything to move her legs and kick the stuffing out of him, but she couldnât move an inch. The eyes looking into her own were determined, and his breath was warm against her lips.
