LITMIR.BIZ

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Jack Trent neck deep in icy water, Jack Trent eating mealworms, Jack Trent manoeuvring his way down a treacherous rock face with accompanying waterfall. The thought of spending even one night camping alone in the middle of this freezing craggy landscape with Jack Trent made nerves flutter crazily in her stomach, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he looked like an Adonis.

      ‘He has a cameraman tag along at various locations to film the survival-skills demonstrations, river crossings, game preparation, that kind of thing,’ she said, glancing briefly across from the mud-flecked windscreen.

      The words ‘game preparation’ rebounded sickly through Evie’s mind.

      ‘Minimal crew though—the programme isn’t meant to look glossy. It’s meant to look like it’s thrown together. It all adds realism. Any night filming he does by himself on a handheld camera. Some of it’s in diary format where he talks direct to camera. He really is on his own out there, not holed up in some hotel.’

      There was a decidedly pointed tone to that last sentence. Was there a single member of the female species who wasn’t sappily in love with Jack Trent?

      ‘Yeah, I got that.’

      If she had a quid for every time someone told her how wrong she’d got it...

      ‘And if anything were to go wrong, which it can’t possibly, the guy’s ex-special forces. He’s survived in some of the most punishing terrain in the world. He led a hostage-rescue mission in Colombia. I think he’s up to managing a weekend in the Scottish Highlands with you.’

      * * *

      The camera was rolling even as she climbed out of the mud-splashed Jeep. Her feet in their new vice-gripping walking boots immediately sank to the ankle into the boggy ground. She followed the production assistant into a sparse brick building outside which were parked a variety of outward-bound vehicles. Crew moved around, shifting film-making equipment. So it sounded as if they took running footage and edited it down later. Fine as long as you didn’t speak before thinking. She resolved to keep her wits about her.

      ‘Have you seen any of Jack’s shows before?’

      ‘A few clips,’ she said shortly. Did she look like someone who enjoyed watching people trek for miles and drink filtered urine? ‘Has he seen any of mine?’

      Clearly not. The production assistant swept on without comment.

      ‘OK...well, first up we cover equipment, clothing, that kind of thing. Jack will work through your kit list with you. The camera will be rolling, just crack on as normal and soon you’ll forget it’s even there. You must be used to it anyway on your own show. We’ll edit and cut as necessary, quick turnaround to make the most of the public interest. Should be able to run it in the usual Miss Knightsbridge prime-time slot next week.’

      The camera crew assumed positions and a hand signal from the director had the filming kick in.

      ‘Miss Knightsbridge is much more planned than this,’ Evie said, glancing around the freezing-cold bare brickwork of the draughty room. ‘It’s not exactly scripted but all the locations and events are worked out beforehand. If things get a bit stilted the producer throws in a controversial topic for us all to discuss, to help things get heated. Essentially the producers stir it up.’

      Her own life was really miles away from the drama it came across as on TV, not that she’d be giving that fact away. Cup-of-cocoa-quiet-life Evie was hardly likely to be of any more interest to the viewers of this show than those of her own. No way. She intended to stick to the tried and tested brash persona that had won her the prospect of an independent future before she’d stuffed it all up.

      ‘Is that why you made that comment about me?’ Jack said, walking in. Her stomach gave a slow flip, clearly nerves at what was to come. He was fully kitted out in survival wear. Walking boots, hard-wearing trousers like her own hideous ones, jacket that looked as if it was made from a duvet. He looked as if he were about to shout a gang of squaddies through an assault course. A twist of trepidation worked its way through her stomach at what exactly the next couple of days was likely to involve. ‘Because your show is a tissue of lies you assumed mine is too?’

      His very first words on camera and he’d made sure they referenced her faux pas. Not even so much as a ‘welcome to the show’. She watched him sorting through a pile of kit. He barely even glanced in her direction, clearly intending to be true to last night’s word, doing her no favours. She shook her head a little to clear it, feeling the camera on her, annoyed with herself for trying to get him onside the previous evening. Why the hell did she need his help? Lack of encouragement wasn’t exactly new to her—she’d spent half her life self-motivating to counteract her father’s indifference. She’d get through this hideous experience on her own. Chester’s advice flashed through her mind and she latched onto it grimly: grovel, act contrite and come across as a game-for-anything fish out of water, sweetie. The public will lap it up. Here was her chance to redeem herself.

      ‘I made that comment without thinking about the consequences,’ she said. She spun round to face the camera head-on. Might as well get the apology out of the way upfront. ‘None of it was true,’ she said clearly to the camera. ‘I was stressed. It was taken out of context. I didn’t make it to get at you.’ She stole a look at Jack. He was watching her intently and she knew this was the part where to really regain the upper hand she should be giving a proper explanation but she simply couldn’t. She wasn’t about to discuss her skewed relationship with her father, not with the camera picking up every stupid nuance.

      Jack kept watching her as she turned away from the camera, the blonde hair tied back, tendrils escaping and curling around her fine-boned face. His eyes strayed to the softness of her mouth before he could stop them. The full lower lip was delectable and a rush of heat sparked in his veins. He snapped his gaze away and focused hard on the kit list in front of him. He had no time for women in his life and that went double for high-maintenance ones like her. Perhaps if he put a conscious mental effort in, his body might actually get that message instead of being distracted by her.

      Last night had been about playing him, about trying to charm him into making her life easier, the way she’d undoubtedly done with everyone throughout her life when things didn’t go her way. He’d lost out to that kind of behaviour in the past. He certainly wouldn’t be putting his trust in a TV personality with their own publicity agenda again any time soon. The way she looked was completely irrelevant.

      He strengthened his resolve. After last night’s attempts to manipulate him, he had the measure of her. There would be no making this easy on her, no special concessions. She was just like any other course attendee, she just happened to make a duvet jacket look sexy for once.

      The camera continued to roll regardless and from the corner of his eye Jack clocked her rucksack with its gold pattern and pink straps as she hefted it onto the trestle table. She’d never make it through the weekend without walking out. There was absolutely no way.

      ‘First rule of survival,’ he said, sticking to the remit of the TV show. ‘Blend in. Just how far do you think you’d get in hostile territory with that thing?’ He nodded at the bag. ‘You might as well have a neon flashing arrow pointing at your head.’

      ‘It’s designer,’ she said, in incredulous tones, as if that gave the wearer the power of invisibility.

      He strode across the sparse and draughty room, pulled a sturdy camouflage-green backpack from the stack of kit near the door and threw it to her. She caught it on reflex to stop it hitting her in the chops. It was identical to his own. He could see from the expression on her face that she loathed it on sight.

      He waited expectantly until she made an irritated noise and unzipped her bulging designer rucksack. The kit list he’d provided had included no provision whatsoever for personal items. Left to him and she’d barely be allowed a toothbrush, which was really rather the point. Roughing it rather lost its mojo when you let your candidates pack luxury items.

      He watched as she proceeded to remove a ludicrous selection of cosmetic items and unsuitable clothing from the rucksack,

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