Secret Schemes and Daring Dreams by Rosie Rushton Page B

whispered. ‘Treated him brutally. Awful. Can’t say more but he just needs to know people care.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Gosh – is that the time? Must dash. So – if he asks for help with photos and stuff – well, you will sort of . . .’
    â€˜Of course I’ll help. Poor guy – and he’s so lovely.’
    Emma left feeling that the day had got off to an exceptionally good start.
    â€˜Look, Theo, much as I’d love you to keep taking pictures of me, I simply can’t let them go on the website,’ Emma was saying to Theo ten minutes later after he’d cornered her in the hallway and asked her to pose in the rose garden. ‘My father would go ballistic.’ She paused, wondering how to make her excuse sound convincing. ‘See, Dad says he doesn’t want my name associated with anything that’s not one hundred per cent environmentally OK. You know, what with him being high profile and stuff. He loves the Knightleys to bits but the hotel isn’t exactly eco aware and —’
    â€˜Right.’ Theo nodded. ‘I can see his point. But it was such a good idea of Harriet’s.’
    â€˜So use her,’ Emma went on. ‘It might help to boost her self-esteem. And she’s free all day.’
    â€˜You are kind,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that then.’
    â€˜Oh and by the way, Lucy’s invited you and Harriet to The Jacaranda Tree on Wednesday. You up for it?’
    â€˜You bet!’ he replied. ‘Hey, I could take some shots for the teen bit of the website. That would spice it up a bit! From Croquet to the Club Scene – great caption, eh?’
    â€˜Brilliant.’ Emma smiled. ‘See you.’
    At ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, Emma was sitting at her dressing table plucking her eyebrows when her phone rang.
    â€˜Emma? Where the hell are you?’
    She held the phone away from her left ear andcontinued plucking with her other hand. ‘In my bedroom. Not that it’s any business of yours,’ she informed George.
    â€˜Actually, business is exactly what it is. Mrs Paxton-Whyte is here with Annabelle,’ he hissed. ‘Wedding plans? You said you’d take on Mum’s role and Mum is never late!’
    Emma chucked the tweezers to one side and kicked herself for looking inefficient in front of George. ‘OK, tell them I’ve been on the phone to some rather upmarket florists.’
    â€˜Have you?’
    â€˜No, of course I haven’t, but they don’t know that. George just do it, OK? I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
    An hour later, having resisted the urge to burst out laughing at the thought of the robustly built Annabelle Paxton-Whyte dressed as Titania for her
Midsummer Night’s Dream
wedding (‘My fiancé is going to be Oberon and my bridesmaids will be fairies – isn’t that blissful?’), Emma was hurrying down the drive to pick up her car and go into Brighton for some serious retail therapy. (The excuse she’d given to George was the need for gossamer-like tulle in sugar pink for the tables, but the main attraction was Gear Up’s sale.) As she reached the gates, a white Porsche 911 shot round the corner from the lane narrowly missing clipping her on the toes.
    â€˜You bloody idiot!’ she screamed, leaping back on to the grass as the car shot past and then screeched to a halt, its tyres spinning on the gravel. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Emma’s heart was racing as shebent down to try to wrest the heel of her slingback from the soft turf and promptly toppled over. ‘You could have killed me!’
    â€˜I am so sorry!’ A shadow fell across her face as the guy jumped out of the car and came towards her. ‘Let me help.’
    â€˜Bit late for that!’ she muttered ‘What kind of loser —?’
    She looked up and her mouth fell open. The thick, blond