knowledge that she was probably going to see Richard again gave her mixed feelings. She couldn’t deny that she was apprehensive, but she was also curious. She wanted to know what was happening in his life; whether the rumours about him and Diane were true. But most of all she wanted to know if she still cared about him. Whether her reasons for accepting this commission were as practical as she’d insisted.
She’d spent the month since she’d told Kay she would accept the commission researching Diane’ s background in the East End of London, and she’d been surprised to learn how well thought of Diane still was amongst the people she’d grown up with. Contrary to the image Olivia had gained of a spoilt and selfish woman, the picture neighbours and classmates painted was of a generous, warm hearted individual, who was not averse to helping out her friends in any way she could. Olivia was given dozens of anecdotes of the ways Diane had come through, from lending money when it was needed to offering her support when it was not.
According to the people Olivia had talked to, success had definitely not gone to Diane’s head. She’d always been a little headstrong, they admitted, but she’d never forgotten her friends or her roots.
And her story was fascinating, Olivia had to admit. Fascinating, amazing, harrowing, at times, but always interesting. The eldest of a family of seven children—many of them with different fathers—her childhood had been blighted by poverty and abuse. Her mother, who had been described as both hard-working and ignorant, had had little time for any of her children, and Diane, as the eldest, had been expected to help care for her younger siblings.
From the beginning, Diane’s outstanding physical beauty had caused problems and she’d become sexually aware at a very young age. But, ironically enough, it was because of an older man’s attraction to the fifteen-year-old Diane that she’d become famous. A wealthy man, he’d taken her to dine at a swish London restaurant and she’d caught the eye of a fashion photographer who was looking for a face for the ‘eighties’.
The rest was history, as they say, but Olivia guessed there was more to it than that. The years between could not have been easy, and although she was loath to admit it Olivia couldn’t help seeing her subject in a different light.
Which was just as well for the job she had to do, she acknowledged. This biography had to be objective, and she was glad that the research she’d already done had enabled her to amend her opinion. Why Diane should have wanted her to write her story was something she had yet to find out. Perhaps she really had enjoyed Eileen Cusack’s biography, Olivia reflected ruefully. After the things she’d learned, anything was possible.
But not probable, the small voice inside her argued as the big jet banked to make its approach to LAX. The sprawling mass that was Los Angeles was spread out below her, and there was no turning back. She was here; she was committed; and she had to stop worrying about Richard and concentrate on the job.
The oval-shaped airport buildings gleamed in the afternoon sunlight as the plane taxied along the runway. It was incredible to think that they’d left London at lunchtime and yet it was still only a quarter to four here. The miracle of international time zones, she thought as the aircraft approached its landing bay. She’d worry about the jet lag later.
The passengers were transferred from the plane to an air-conditioned walkway that conducted them to Passport Control. Because the expenses she was being allowed had enabled her to sit in the Club World section of the British Airways jet, Olivia found herself among the first to reach the Arrivals Hall, and like everyone else she spent the time waiting for her luggage by people-spotting.
She recognised a couple of famous faces who had apparently been travelling in the first-class compartment of the plane, and was surprised at the lack of interest shown towards them. It wasn’t until she noticed the bodyguards, tucked discreetly behind a pillar, that she understood her mistake. But still, it was something to tell her parents when she got home.
She had been checking that her luggage tags were still safely attached to her boarding pass when she looked up to find a man watching her. The fact that his clothes looked expensive and he was wearing a Rolex watch should have reassured her, but it didn’t. It just reminded her of how vulnerable she was as a stranger here.
Diane’s secretary had faxed her that she would meet her at the airport, and she hoped she kept her word. Still, she could always take a taxi, she assured herself impatiently. She knew Diane’s address and she wasn’t a child.
Indeed, she thought ruefully, her height would be a deterrent for most men. And although she was slim she knew she was fairly strong. She wasn’t a fitness freak, but she did enjoy swimming and cycling, and she knew from her experiences in New York that in the normal way she had nothing to be afraid of.
Unless her imaginary attacker looked like the man who had been watching her, she conceded, relieved to see that he had apparently lost interest. He was staring towards the carousel that would eventually spill out their luggage, and she found herself observing him with rather more interest than sense.
He was certainly big, she mused, and dark, with a lean, sinewy grace that was nothing like the muscle-bound heroes Hollywood seemed to spawn with such regularity. And although he was good to look at his appeal lay in the roughness of his features rather than their uniformity. Deep-set eyes beneath dark brows, and narrow cheekbones and a thin-lipped mouth; if there were lines on his face, they were lines of experience, and she realised he was probably ten years older than the twenty-five she’d originally judged him to be.
She wondered who he was. Not a film star, she decided, though there was another man hovering close by who could be a minder. If he needed one, she speculated doubtfully, realising she was being far too nosy. Whoever he was, he wasn’t interested in her, and she was unlikely to see him again.
The carousel had begun to turn and suitcases appeared like magic from the chute above it. A black holdall appeared, and the man standing beside the man she had been watching went to rescue it. She noticed he also had a suit carrier looped across his shoulder, and after he’d plucked the holdall from the conveyor he and his companion turned towards the exit.
First class, Olivia informed herself silently, realising the two men must have travelled on the same flight from London. She grimaced. So what? It was nothing to do with her. It was time she started paying attention to her own luggage. She thought she could see one of her suitcases just starting along the metal belt.
‘Would you happen to be Ms Pyatt?’
The unfamiliar voice was amazingly sexy. It conjured up images of hot sultry nights and bare brown limbs tangled in satin sheets. Olivia decided she was in danger of acting out her own fantasies, and, blaming the man who had fired her imagination, she turned to find that he hadn’t left after all but was standing right behind her.
‘I—’ Swallowing to ease the dryness of her throat, she started over. ‘Yes,’ she said, a little reluctantly. ‘I’m Olivia Pyatt.’ She’d reverted to her own surname when she and Richard were divorced. Then, because it was the only thing she could think of, she asked, ‘Did Miss Haran ask you to meet me?’
The man’s lean mouth twitched. ‘Not exactly,’ he said, humour tugging at the corners of his lips. ‘But Diane told me you were travelling on this flight.’
So he did know Diane. Olivia breathed a little more easily, although common sense told her it was the only explanation. ‘Did you travel from London, too?’ she asked, as if she didn’t already know that he had. He was probably a Californian, which would explain his accent and his tan.
‘Yeah.’ He glanced towards his companion, who was waiting patiently for him to finish. ‘B.J. and I make the trip fairly regularly.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s not to be recommended.’
‘Because of the jet lag?’ guessed Olivia, aware that her suitcase was about to start going round again. ‘Excuse me, I must get my luggage. I don’t want to have to carry it any further than I have to.’
‘I’ll get it.’
Leaning past her, the man lifted the heavy bag off the carousel and set it down beside her. In jeans and a light cotton jacket,