Chapter 21

“Oh yeah. Come on. Harder. Do me harder.” Chloë had taken to offering Adam encouragement and he had to admit that he liked it. He was almost there. Almost.

The phone on the bedside table rang.

“Who...? Who could that be?” he asked between the efforts of thrusting up into Chloë. She liked to be on top.

“Alarm Call,” she said, panting.

“But it’s—” He turned his head to look at the clock. “—only half six.”

“Yeah. I ordered it yesterday. It’s going to be a long day. We won’t get to do this again until tonight. So come on. Fuck me for fuck’s sake.” She put her hands on his chest and ground her pelvis against him, mashing her clit and driving herself towards another orgasm.

By seven-thirty they were at the Oxford Street store of world-renowned French designer, Jacques Surmont. Adam had no trouble choosing a suit, shirt and tie from Jacques’ large selection, but Chloë took nearly an hour to find the right dress. It was partly Jacques’ fault as he kept giving her a genuine appraisal of how she looked in each time she tried one on. Adam thought she looked fantastic in everything.

After the fitting, they were rushed to a private photo studio. Adam had no idea what to expect, but he had hoped it would be more fun than it turned out to be. Aside from having to change costumes four times, the constant smiling made his cheeks hurt. By the time they’d finished and were taken for lunch, Adam understood why Chloë hated doing publicity. After lunch, he understood even better. He had to wait around while Chloë was interviewed by a string of people from magazines and newspapers, and while a series of short interviews were taped for television and radio. It was after five when they got back to the hotel. They found a light meal waiting for them and Jacques’ clothes laid out on the bed. They ate quickly and showered together before a make-up artist and hairdresser arrived to attend to Chloë. This was one aspect of Chloë’s life that Adam liked. He’d had people fussing over his appearance all day—even during the afternoon, just in case one of the interviewers wanted to talk to him too.

He had a quick haircut while Chloë was having her make-up fixed, and then dressed. On Jacques’ advice, he’d chosen a single-breasted black suit. It was a classic cut, except that it didn’t have lapels or a collar. He’d also picked out a white silk shirt, plain black tie and patent black leather shoes. He admired himself in the mirror.

“Someone looks handsome. I knew you’d scrub up well.” Adam winked at Chloë through the mirror and adjusted his tie. She was still sitting in the make-up chair.

“I can’t believe he’s letting me keep the threads,” said Adam.

“Oh, they always do. You should hear the stories about the big Hollywood stars. The designers send them a whole wardrobe of dresses to choose from for awards season, and never get any of them back. I wouldn’t do that to Jacques though, no matter how big of a star I became. He’s been far too good to me in the past.”

Even though she’d taken nearly an hour and tried on about twenty dresses at Jacques’ shop, Chloë had settled on the first one she’d tried on—the one that Jacques had first suggested. He’d said he’d designed it with Chloë in mind. The dress was made of black silk and hung gently from her curves, stopping just above her knee—although at the back a tail of silk almost reached the floor. There were three spaghetti straps on each shoulder and it plunged to a deep ‘v’ at the front, revealing ample cleavage. A large white flower was embroidered on the right breast and a line of increasingly smaller flowers snaked a ‘s’ shape down to the hem. She climbed into the dress and asked Adam to zip her up from behind. He willingly obliged, running his hands back down her body when he was finished. She turned to face him and put her arms around his neck. “Sorry, but no kisses for you. My lippy’s still wet—you’ll just have to wait.”

She sat on the bed to put on her strappy heels, then stood. “Well? What do you think? Do I look good enough to meet the Queen?”

“Stunning,” he said. “You scrub up even better than me. I do believe I’m the luckiest bloke in Britain.”

She put a finger underneath his chin. “You better believe it, buster.” She nodded towards the door. “Come on, we’d better go or we’ll be late.”

A white limousine waited for them outside the hotel. The driver held the door open as they climbed in and shut it behind them. “Now this I could get used to,” Adam said. “More champagne?”

“Yeah. Want some?”

Adam nodded and Chloë poured two glasses. “Shame Leicester Square isn’t that far away,” she said as the oversize car pulled out into the slowly moving traffic. “There are tons of things I’ve always wanted to do in the back of a limo but never had anyone to do them with.”

“We could ask the driver to take the long way around.”

“I wish, but we don’t really have the time. Besides, I can’t go messing up my hair before I meet royalty.”

They sat back and sipped champagne as the limo trudged through the congestion. Even at the lowly speed they achieved, it still only took a short time to reach Leicester Square. The car stopped by the red carpet and the driver held the door open for them. A blinding flurry of flashbulbs went off as they stood by the car. There were cries of “Over here, Chloë!” from the press pack. Chloë held Adam’s arm and, through a smile, she whispered, “Try and relax. Smile for the cameras, but don’t wave. We’re going to move over there and pose for a bit. Then I’ll have to go and work the crowd.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Adam said out of the side of his mouth.

“Trust me. I’ve done this once or twice before.”

It wasn’t as bad as Adam expected. His cheeks hurt again after all the smiling, but when they crossed to the other side of the red carpet to meet some of the people in the crowd, he quite enjoyed himself.

“Here mate, you’re a lucky bastard,” cried a voice in the crowd.

“I know,” Adam called back.

“Ditch him, Chloë,” said another voice. “I’ll make you happier.”

“Yeah,” said another voice, “and I’ve got a bigger cock.”

“I very much doubt that,” said Chloë. The crowd laughed.

“Chloë, your boyfriend’s a hunk.” This came from a pretty girl at the front of the crowd. Adam guessed she was in her early teens. He was glad it was dark—hunks didn’t blush. “Can I get a photo of you two with me?” She held out her mobile phone to take the photo while Chloë and Adam stood either side of her.

An older girl further up the line called out, “Can I borrow your boyfriend some time. He’s lush!”

Chloë held on tight to Adam’s arm, laughed and called back, “Not a chance in hell. He’s all mine and I’m not about to share him.”

More people took photos and Chloë signed more autographs than Adam could count before a security guard ushered them into the picture house. They were directed to their seats by a man in an official-looking uniform.

“Now,” the official said. “When the royal party arrives, there will be a fanfare and you’ll have to stand. They’ll be in the Royal Box, up there. Do not sit down again until Her Majesty and His Highness are both seated.”