Page 106 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

“Shush, now. I don’t like being contradicted.”

I shushed. Mainly so I could decide whether I was annoyed or not.

A flurry of fresh clicks.

“And you like being told what to do.” It wasn’t even a question.

“Yes.” My chin came up. “But that doesn’t mean I like you doing it.”

“Keep telling yourself that, poppet.” George lowered the camera again and smirked at me. And, just for a moment, I allowed myself to notice she was hot. In an arrogant sort of way. With those Marlene Dietrich eyes, all mockery and smolder.

She was probably about as tall as Caspian, even in flats, and her high-waisted, satin-seamed trousers made her legs look about a million miles long. No mask. No jacket. Only a cummerbund and a formal shirt with enough buttons undone to reveal the pale, upper curves of her breasts and an edge of black lace.

Okay. Upgrade to really hot.

“Are you going to keep calling me that?” I asked. By way of a distraction tactic.

“Maaaaaaaaybe.”

I knew this game. “You’re not, are you?”

“No.”

“Gosh”—I gave my head a coquettish flick—“how dare you demean me in this fashion.”

Her eyes flared with barely banked wickedness. “Having fun?”

I…I guess I was. Like when you passed your hand through a Bunsen burner flame trying to figure out how close to the blue you had to go to feel it. And then to make it hurt. “I’m with Caspian,” I squeaked.

“I know you are. But he’s foolishly left you all alone.” She lifted her camera, catching what I hoped was a look of flustered outrage and nothing more revealing than that.

I actually enjoyed flirting—even if (maybe especially if?) it came with an edge of danger. Except Caspian probably wouldn’t like it. “Please don’t.”

She put a hand flat to the wall close to my head and leaned in. I got a waft of cedar and sandalwood, spicy and rich. “Am I scaring you?”

“Not in a bad way.” I tried not to look at all the interesting ways her shirt was gaping. “But I don’t want to hurt Caspian.”

She stared down at me for a moment. And then she murmured, in a tone both dulcet and ironic, “Sweet, loyal little butterfly.”

I tried to laugh it off and blushed instead.

She shook her head. “Where on earth did he find you?” Thankfully, my three years at a world-renowned institution of higher education had taught me to recognize a rhetorical question so I kept quiet, and she went on, “In any case, I’m not going to leave you here, looking all lovelorn. Come along, poppet. You’re going to be my assistant until Caspian wants you back.”

“Am I?” It was a mild protest, mainly for the sake of my pride. Though, truthfully, I was relieved.

It was about time someone rescued me.

And, in practice, being George’s assistant wasn’t very demanding. I held lenses, passed her the occasional glass of champagne, watched and listened. She introduced me to nearly everyone—some of them were, in fact, viscounts—but nobody was awful and I did my best to be charming. I just wished it’d been for Caspian. That he could have stood at my side and been proud to be with me.

Sometimes George set up particular shots, moving people into position with terrifying efficiency, keeping up a constant flow of instructions, praise, and promises: heads together please, turn this way, give me a smile, you’re gorgeous, oh yes, show me those eyes, this is going to be perfect…But mainly she waited, patient as a cat in the moonlight, or prowled the edges of the room, camera in hand.

“What do you look for?” I asked.

“The thing nobody else sees.” She propped her hip casually against a piece of furniture I didn't have a name for—something ornate and impressive, probably a credenza or vitrine or whatever. “Society photography comes down to one very simple principle. Anyone can take pictures of Kate Middleton and Lady Gaga. The trick is getting a picture of Kate Middleton with Lady Gaga.”

“And have you?”

“Not yet. But I’m a long way from dead, and hopefully so are they.”

---