The Honey Trap
The trap is set – but which one of them is the bait?Journalist Angel Blackthorne is looking for her next big scoop. When her sleazy editor asks her to use her charms on super successful – and married – film director Sebastian Wilchester for a juicy exposé, Angel thinks what the hell? There’s a staff job on the horizon, and, let’s be honest, no one can make a cheater cheat if they don’t want to, right?After the scandal breaks, Angel tries to put the story – and Seb – behind her, but fate seems to have other ideas. A near miss at a premiere after-party and a shared love of vintage film brings the honey closer to the trap.But what happens when pretence leads to passion, and a ‘kiss and tell’ becomes something real?
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HarperImpulse an imprint of
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016
Copyright © Mary Jayne Baker 2016
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Mary Jayne Baker asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
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is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © August 2016 ISBN: 9780008194581
Version 2016-06-24
To Mark, my very own live-in romantic hero, who deserves this dedication even though he always hogs the covers
Table of Contents
Angel Blackthorne’s dream job wasn’t turning out quite how she’d pictured it.
She lurked behind a Corinthian column in the ornate gilt-and-ivory lobby of the Hotel D’Azur, tugging at the barely buttock-covering Little Black Dress her boss Steve had made her wear. Don’t forget, love, tits and teeth. And then… whatever it takes. She could smell the mint and nicotine breath lacing the gruff Yorkshire accent, gravelled with old fags, as he leaned towards her and spat out lesson one of Entrapment for Dummies.
Not for the first time that night, she wished she was wearing proper underwear. The thin, lacy strips of silken fabric covering her breasts and nether regions seemed far from up to the job of keeping everything in – which was the whole point, of course. How exactly was it she’d let Emily convince her to buy them?
The receptionist behind the white marble front desk, crisp and professional in her gas-blue two-piece and bobbed hair, was starting to eyeball Angel with suspicion. Probably wondering if I’m a ‘working girl’, she thought with a sour half-smile. She pulled again at the hemline of her almost-there cocktail dress and shook a mental fist at Steve, the source of all her woes.
Christ, Angel, grow a pair. Remember, you signed up for this. To the breach…
Steeling herself, she walked over to the heavy mahogany door leading to the hotel bar, gripped the brass rail and leaned her weight against it. It swung open noiselessly. Thank God for the unknown caretaker and his can of WD40!
Angel slipped through and ducked into one of the huge, high-backed armchairs immediately to her left. She noted with relief that not one of the handful of punters had looked up from their drinks.
The chair was vast enough for her to get lost in: a highly polished Chesterfield in quilted red leather that would really require a smoking jacket and fat cigar to be truly enjoyed. Not to mention a penis… The whole bar reeked of a very masculine, gentlemen’s club-style opulence, all carved walnut panelling, cut-glass chandeliers and plush red damask.
Glancing around the room, Angel sought her prey.
She soon spied her man seated at the bar, watching some sort of sporting event on a wall-mounted plasma screen; the one modern touch in the place. She’d only seen one photo, but yes, she was certain that was him: notoriously private Sebastian Wilchester, film-making wunderkind.
The editor of The Daily Investigator had waited a long time to corner Wilchester in a public place so he could spring a honey trap. Tonight was the night – and Angel was the bait.
***
‘I really don’t know what you’re worrying about,’ Emily had said earlier that day while they shopped through their lunch break. Trust her flatmate, Miss Hump-’em-and-dump-’em, to completely miss the point. For Em, sexual hang-ups were something that only happened to other people.
Emily held up a pair of sheer red knickers and eyed them critically. ‘Honestly, Ange, only you could fret yourself to death over an all-expenses-paid night out with a sexy man in a swanky hotel. Lighten up and enjoy yourself. I mean, this is your first big assignment in six months. Isn’t this what you wanted?’
