She started to panic almost right away, her mind searching for explanations—something had happened to her family, someone had seen her groping Mark in the cab, someone had released video of their exploits in the dressing room to the press.
“I have to listen to my voice mail,” she called to the kitchen. “I have a million messages, apparently, and I only have that many when there’s a crisis. Since you’re my biggest client, that means the crisis is very likely to be you.”
“Haven,” the first message began. It was a stranger, and at least there was no death or urgency in the woman’s voice. “This is Suellen Marvel at High Note magazine. We know Sliding Up is planning a comeback tour, and we’d like to talk to you and set up an interview with Mark Webster.”
All the other voice mails were variations on that one. Damn it. They’d lost control of the timing of announcing the tour. Someone—she suspected Jimmy Jeffers, though she knew better than to accuse him—had leaked word of the possible tour to the media. She bet Jimmy had gotten tired of his stars squabbling, tired of waiting for Mark to capitulate and Pete to act like a human being. She bet this was his way of forcing their hands.
All the reporters who’d called her seemed to know that Pete Sovereign was a wild card, that his participation wasn’t yet ensured. Some were dubious that he could be convinced, and a few even said they didn’t believe that Pete and Mark could ever work together again. Many of them seemed to question her ability to make Mark Webster show-ready, and two mentioned Celine Carr’s Caribbean high jinks, doubting flat-out Haven’s ability to keep a PR situation from turning into a circus.
Well, they could shove it, because she didn’t doubt her abilities.
Except that—
What had she done?
If sleeping with her client wasn’t turning a situation into a circus, she had no idea what was.
A total of seventeen separate reporters had contacted her. But only one of the calls made her heart pound—the one that mentioned knowing that Haven had taken Mark to Nordstrom yesterday, and asking what that trip was about. That caller also knew that they had left the department store together, though, it seemed, not where they had gone. But it was way too close for comfort. They were being watched. They were being watched far more intensely than she had imagined.
She cursed herself, her unruly, out-of-control desire for Mark Webster. How had she let this happen, not once, not twice, but three times? How had she allowed herself to be sucked in deeper each time?
She’d chosen sex over her career, that’s what she’d done. Like some horny politician Tweeting photos of his dick or accepting blow jobs under the desk.
She had to regain control.
Maybe it was better this way. Rather than waiting for the clock to run out, for Mark to realize she wasn’t good enough for him, maybe it was better to be the one who brought things to a neat and tidy conclusion.
“Mark.”
He flipped a slice of bacon, and didn’t look at her. There must’ve been something in her voice that warned him he wasn’t going to like what she was about to say.
“Someone leaked about the tour. The press is on to us.”
“What does that mean?” His tone was suspicious.
“We have to be—we have to be more careful.”
“You mean we have to be discreet.” He said it flatly. “And I know that really equals ‘celibate.’”