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2

It was December and all the transatlantic flights were delayed. k That suited Hal Hoskins as he crouched over his camera case at the edge of the Heathrow terminal concourse and selected the best lens for the job. More time for Casey to squeeze something original out of the interview, more time for him to get the lighting right. And tomorrow their exclusive on Mandy Righteous — superstar singer, actress and self-proclaimed sex goddess would hit the London streets in the Evening Standard. With accolades all round.

He draped the Pentax strap over his shoulder, locked his case and looked around at the milling crowd of hot and anxious travellers. No sign of Casey, she’d left for the VIP lounge twenty minutes ago. He looked at his watch. At this rate they’d lose the time advantage they’d gained.

Then he saw her.

Casey Mullins was not easy to miss. She was slim and tall. Too tall, she said, any taller and she’d be in a zoo. That was a typical self-deprecating oneliner from the thirty-five-year-old American. You had to get in quick with your jibes about Yanks if you wanted to get there first. It was a quality which had quickly endeared her to the staff, along with her buoyant humour and the ready smile that brightened the cream-and-freckles face. Probably it would go some way to ensure that she was taken on permanently when her three-month trial was up.

But there was no sign of that good nature now as she stomped angrily towards the photographer, high heels snapping and her amber hair swinging.

‘I do not believe that woman!’

‘What’s up, Case?’

Casey glared as passersby gawped at her obvious show of rage. ‘She’s changed her mind, that’s what’s up. Mandy Righteous changed her frigging mind. She won’t give the interview now because she says she’s got a migraine.’

Hal shrugged. A born fatalist, nothing ever perturbed him. ‘Perhaps she has. It can be pretty painful.’

Casey delivered a withering scowl. ‘Hal, she was eating a cheese sandwich. Migraine sufferers do not eat cheese sandwiches.’

‘At least you’ve discovered something. The exotic Mandy Righteous eats plain old cheese sandwiches.’

‘She was also sitting next to that awful Australian TV soap star. No, not him, his female co-star. But I can hardly base a two-page exclusive feature on those two facts.’ She looked around at the milling crowds, all heading home for Christmas and a good time. And all she had to look forward to was a bollocking — that cute English expression — from the editor and an insufferable Yuletide with her second husband’s business contacts over for meals and drinks. The only consolation would be her daughter’s shared sense of fun. ‘All this time wasted, Hal. Wasted.’

‘If Eddie was here he’d say you look magnificent when you’re angry.’

She almost smiled at the name of the veteran reporter who made no secret of the fact that he fancied her rotten. ‘Don’t talk dirty, Hal. I’m nearly old enough to be your mother.’

They began walking. ‘I’ll buy you a drink when we get back to London, Case. Anyway, who needs an interview with a singer who can’t sing and an actress who can’t act. Just because she’s told the world she doesn’t wear knickers.’

Suddenly she stopped still as though she’d seen a ghost. ‘Isn’t that him?’

‘Who?’

She pushed forward, threading through a line of passengers with their luggage. ‘Abe what’s-his-name? Senator Powers?’

‘Wouldn’t know about that.’

‘That’s because you’re not an American,’ she replied tartly.

Now she was sure. He was a big man, probably six-five, with huge shoulders encased in an expensive Gianni Versace suit. He made light work of the trolley piled high with suitcases, his huge knuckles gripping with the same determination as the set of his chin. He was heading for the exit and no one was going to slow him down. And the two soberly dressed minders, one on each side of him like outriders in a fast presidential cavalcade, were making sure that no one did.

‘Who is he?’ Hoskins asked, trotting to keep up with Casey’s lengthening stride.

‘Senator Abe Powers,’ she replied. ‘The third, I think. Like one of your English monarchs.’

‘Delusions of grandeur?’

‘Wouldn’t be surprised. His family is close to the Kennedys, but always in their shadow. He’s made quite a name for himself in Washington recently as a peace-broker. Played quite a role in the Palestinian agreement and in the Bosnian talks…’ She’d outflanked Senator Abe Powers III now, overtaking him behind a queue of passengers and then sweeping around in a path across his bows.

The trolley struck her hard in the thigh, bringing Powers to a shuddering and apologetic stop.

Her smile as she winced through the pain was just short of angelic. ‘Gee, I’m sorry too, it was my fault for not looking.’ She feigned a sudden recognition. ‘It’s Senator Powers, isn’t it?’

The man looked embarrassed, ran one of his hambone hands through the lush thicket of silvery hair. ‘Yes, I am.’ The voice rich baritone.

Behind him the burly minders hovering, uncertain, awaiting instructions.

‘I’m Casey Mullins of the London Evening Standard. A fellow American. I’m a great fan of yours,’ she babbled, throwing in everything she could think of to make him respond.

‘That’s most kind, Miss Mullins. An honour to meet you,’ he said, attempting to push his trolley past her.

She resisted. ‘We met last year.’

‘Oh, really, where?’ His eyes were searching for a route through.

‘Washington,’ she guessed. ‘At a party, but of course you wouldn’t remember me.’

Ttn sure I do.’ Terse and getting terser.

That melting smile again. ‘Then you remember that interview you promised me?’

He looked perplexed.

‘But you had to rush out of town,’ she explained, letting him off the hook. ‘On government business.’ I know you are an important man, she implied, who wouldn’t break a promise to a lady. She added: ‘Can I ask what you’re doing here? There’s been no media release from Grosvenor Square.’

The full, handsome lips twitched. ‘That’s because this is a personal visit. Family, you know.’

‘I don’t see your wife and kids,’ she said, tiptoeing to look between the senator and his guardians.

‘They’re in Aspen, skiing. Now, please, if you’ll excuse me, I really am in a hurry.’

‘That interview, Senator Powers, perhaps we could have it while you’re in London?’

‘I’m sorry, my schedule’s much too tight.’

‘Just half-an-hour? Fifteen minutes even?’

‘I don’t think so.’

The bright light dazzled as Hal Hoskins, down on one knee, took a superb undershot of Abe Powers’ jutting chin and nostrils flared in defiance.

Before she or the hapless photographer were aware of what was happening, the two minders moved into action. Hoskins’s camera was gently but firmly prised from his grip, the back opened and the stripped roll of film sent spinning to the floor. A powerful forearm swept behind Casey’s back, an irresistible force carrying her away to allow the trolley to move on.

By the time she and Hoskins had recovered, they were watching Senator Powers’ broad shoulders disappear through the exit doors.

‘Guess he’s shy,’ Hoskins observed ruefully.

‘C’mon, Hal, he loves publicity. He can’t ever get enough. Back home he’s always inviting the press to his home to photograph him with the wife and their ail-American sons. Pillar of traditional family values and all that pap.’ She glared after her quarry. ‘So why’s he in London for Christmas and they’re in Aspen?’ ‘Perhaps they’ve fallen out.’

‘Don’t be stupid. He’d never allow her to do that.’ ‘Maybe he’s got a secret assignation with Mandy Righteous.’ She grinned at the thought. ‘I’ll tell the ed to hold the front page.’