Desert King, Doctor Daddy. Meredith Webber

meeting a heart-throb popstar.

      But she could only stare at him, so when he took her hand and lifted it to brush his lips across her fingers, she didn’t snatch it back or slap his face or do anything at all but continue to stare at him.

      ‘Later,’ he said, then he strode off down the stairs, collected his jacket and tie and, slinging them over his shoulder, departed. As he opened the door Gemma noticed that the limo that had driven him up earlier was still waiting outside, which was a funny thing to be thinking of when her brain was numb and her fingers trembling from a kiss.

      Entering the foyer of the Nautilus that evening, Gemma felt an unfamiliar dread settle on her shoulders. Nothing to do with the man she was to meet—more to do with the fact that the posh hotel was the kind of place her grandfather had always taken her to celebrate a birthday or good results on a school report card. She had dreaded the outings, alone with her grandfather, certain she’d drop her knife or burp and bring that look of condemnation into his eyes…