“Mr Morgan, may I have a few moments of your time, please?”
I grind my teeth and turn on my heels, wheeling us around to face the voice’s owner.
Game face Bryn. Canting my head, I slide a panty-melter cocky smile in place.
Taking my turning to her as my acquiescence, a skinny blonde who’s familiar in a not-sure-where’ve-I’ve seen-her-before kinda way, sheafed in a snuggly rainbow-coloured glittery dress, shoves a microphone up in my face.
Raising a brow, I take a step back, my eyes darting to her hand, before sliding back onto her face.
She retracts it slightly, a blush creeping across her chest and up along her throat. “Terribly sorry Mr Morgan,” she mouths.
“Not a problem, just didn’t want to have that thing sticking out of my mouth all night,” I deadpan, hiding my irritation behind a swift smile. She shifts on the spot, and pats her short blonde hair with the hand not aiming the microphone at me.
My eyes glance down at the oversized piece of sound equipment in her fingers. It has a glittery CF printed around each side of a square pod placed around the base of the mouthpiece, and at the top of the handle.
It reminds me of a metallic ice-cream cone, and I stare at it before looking down into her eyes, my seductive face shifting into place.
She swallows, her eyes glazing with lust, and satisfaction warms my blood as she visibly melts beneath my heated gaze.
Blinking out of her spell, she turns to the cameraman behind her, gives a whirling signal with her index finger and spins back to me. The cameraman readjusts his load on his shoulder as he settles himself to the left hand side of us. Fiddling with and then pressing some buttons, he holds his free hand up and gives her three fingers, which he gradually counts down to one lone finger, points at her and as a red light flickers above the lens, she smiles, and then opens her mouth, gazing into the camera’s shiny eye.
“Hello everyone this is Summer Green from Channel Five’s Chic Fashion Network.” Large smile. Pause. “And I’m talking to Sydney’s society darlings, Mr and Mrs Morgan.”
She sets those baby blues onto me. Flutters spiky lashes, heavy with black gunk. “So, Mr Morgan, Bryn. May I call you that?” She purrs huskily.
Straightening, I smile disarmingly and I just know my green eyes are dazzling her. “You just did.”
Confusion clouds hers, before clearing and once again sparkling beneath the spotlights which sweep in great lazy criss-crossing arcs across the forecourt of the hotel where we’re all gathered like stunned mullets.
“Bryn, I must say you look very dashing tonight. I simply have to ask, whaaat are you wearing?” She gushes, drawing out the ‘a’ in that phoney way of fame-hungry-whores.
Clothes you dumb bitch. “Armani.”
She titters, shifts her stance. “Lovely.” Her eyes dart to Melinda, and I notice them harden a second as she stares. Melinda doesn’t notice, she stands straighter and sticks out her sizable chest. “Mrs Morgan, Melinda darling —” annoying fame-whore croons.
My teeth gnash.
The reporter, Summer, continues her useless babble, “— you look stunning. You simply must tell our viewers about that beautiful dress.” Wide, white smile. “Who are you wearing?”
Melinda fiddles with her dress and I swallow a growl as she takes a deep breath preparing to verbally vomit all over us. “Oh thank you Summer, you’re much too kind. This,” she slips from my grasp and does a small twirl before replacing her arm around my lower back. “This dress is from a sweet little boutique in Paddington, Elegant Affairs. Have you heard of it dear?”
Summer’s lips crack wider. “No, that’s not a name I’m familiar with.”
Melinda sniffs. “No doubt. It’s invitation only. I expect that’s why you haven’t come across it before.” You whip-tongued cunt. Summer’s eyes flash. Melinda ignores her. “Well Summer dear, it’s a one off that the gorgeous owner, Talia made specifically for this evening.”
The media whore stiffens and steps back, her eyes hungrily roaming over me before glancing around, looking for fresh meat to bore to death on camera. “Well thank you both for your time. Please have a lovely time tonight. Bryn,” — my hand fists — “Melinda.” She signals cut to her cameraman and toddles off, snagging another couple before they can make their escape.
“Well that was a fucking waste of time,” I grunt out through my smile.
“Hush Bryn, someone might hear you.”
“Who gives a fat fuck? What’s this shit show in aid of anyway. I’d like to know what I’m wasting my time over.” I dig my fingers into her hip, smiling tightly as she releases a sharp breath.
* * *
Extract from the Wolf in Armani copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016