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The secrets behind Australia’s most famous smile
Liza Lithgow has her reasons for living life in the spotlight, and they’re all to do with protecting her little sister. Now she’s finally saved enough money to leave the red carpet behind, what better way to celebrate than with a martini and a man?
The only problem is, the man in question turns out to be a publisher wanting her kiss-and-tell autobiography! Wade Urquart’s company wants a story? Fine. If scandal will sell more copies, she’ll give them exactly what they want! But what will Wade see—the glossy facade or maybe, at last, the real Liza?
What the Paparazzi Didn’t See
“Why did you agree to have a drink with me?”
The waitress deposited their drinks and he raised a martini glass in her direction. “You seemed to be in your element at that party.”
“Haven’t you ever faked it?” She clinked her glass to his. “What you see isn’t always what you get.”
He stared at her over the rim of his glass, a slight groove between his brows. “Have to say, you’re an intriguing woman and I can’t figure you out.”
She shrugged. “What’s there to know? We’re two people who wanted to escape that party. We’re having a drink. End of story.”
“Is it?”
His gaze locked on hers, potent and smoldering, and her breath hitched.
She took a sip of her martini, needing the alcohol to loosen her tightened vocal cords. “You’re expecting an epilogue?”
“A guy can always live in hope,” he said.
Dear Reader,
I admit it. The glamorous celebrity lifestyle intrigues me.
As a young woman, I had the opportunity to be a part of this world via my love for the North Melbourne Football Club. It was fun and frivolous and fabulous!
Then recently, I watched WAG Nation and it got me thinking… What happens behind the scenes in the lives of sportsmen’s wives and girlfriends?
How difficult is it to constantly be under public scrutiny?
My heroine, Liza Lithgow, knows firsthand what it’s like to put on a front while hiding her real motivation.
Will she be able to reveal her true self to publishing powerhouse Wade Urquart and find love in the process?
I loved writing a book with publishing as its theme. It’s a world I live in daily!
I hope you have as much fun reading Liza and Wade’s romance as I did creating it.
Happy reading,
Nicola
www.nicolamarsh.com
What the Paparazzi
Didn’t See
Nicola Marsh
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ABOUT NICOLA MARSH
Nicola Marsh has always had a passion for writing and reading. As a young girl she devoured books when she should have been sleeping, and later kept a diary whose contents could be an epic in itself!
These days, when she’s not enjoying life with her husband and sons in her home city of Melbourne, she’s at her computer, creating the romances she loves in her dream job.
Visit Nicola’s website at www.nicolamarsh.com for the latest news of her books.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Excerpt
ONE
LIZA LITHGOW’S STYLE TIPS
FOR MAXIMUM WAG WOW IMPACT
The Lashes
The eyes have it. Whether attending a grand final at a stadium packed with one hundred thousand people, a glamorous nightclub opening or a BBQ with the team and their partners, bold eyes make a statement.
1 Prep with a hydrating cream.
2 Apply foundation over your lids.
3 Draw the perfect line with pencil then trace with liquid eyeliner.
4 Apply shadow of choice. Go for sparkle at night.
5 Finish with lashings of mascara.
If you need a little help in the lash department, extensions are the way to go. Individual fake lashes are pasted to your own, giving you a lush look that turns heads.
A full set of extensions takes about an hour. They last 3-6 weeks and will require refills at this time. Refills take 30 minutes.
The great thing about lash extensions is you choose whether you want natural or glamour. Though be warned: the longer-length ‘glamour’ lashes may result in questions like, ‘Have you been to a fancy dress party?’ or, ‘Is there a Priscilla: Queen of the Desert revival at the local theatre?’
If you prefer au naturel, the key to luscious lashes is prepping with a good serum. Many cosmetic companies have them.
To open up the eye in preparation for mascara, eyelash curlers are essential. Best to heat them up slightly before applying pressure to the lashes for thirty seconds.
For more dramatic impact with mascara, wiggle the wand from side to side as you apply, ensuring good coverage at the base of the lashes. It’s the density and darkness of mascara at the roots that gives the illusion of length.
And always, always, opt for waterproof. (You never know when your sport star ‘other half’ may shoot the winning hoop to win the national championship or kick the goal to break a nil-all draw in the World Cup.)
For a real wow factor with mascara, the darker the better. Black is best unless you have a very fair complexion, in which case brown is better.
Similarly with eyeliner. Stick to black at night and softer, smudged brown during the day.
For eyeshadow shades, stick to neutrals or soft pinks. Let your lashes do the talking!
If Liza Lithgow had to attend one more freaking party, she’d go insane.
Her curves resisted the control-top underwear constriction, her feet pinched from the requisite stilettos and her face ached from the perpetual smile.
The joys of being a WAG.
Technically, an ex-WAG. And loving the ex bit.
The reportedly glamorous lives of sportsmen’s Wives And Girlfriends were grossly exaggerated. She should know. She’d lived the lie for longer than she cared to admit.
‘One more pic, Liza?’
Yeah, that was what they all said. Not that she had anything against the paparazzi per se, but their idea of one last photo op usually conflicted with hers.
Assuming her game face, the one she’d used to great effect over the years, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled.
A plethora of flashes blinded her but her smile didn’t slip. She turned slowly, giving them time to snap her side profile before she cocked a hip, placing a hand on it and revealing an expanse of leg guaranteed to land her in the gossip columns tomorrow.
Hopefully for the last time.
Being a WAG had suited her purposes but she was done.
Let some other poor sap take her place, primping for the cameras, grinning inanely, starving herself so she wouldn’t be labelled pregnant by the media.
With a final wave at the photographers she strutted into the function room, pausing to grab a champagne from a passing waiter before heading to her usual spot at any function: front and centre.
If this was her last hurrah, she was determined to go out in style.
She waited for the party peeps and hangers-on to flock, steeled her nerve to face the inevitable inquisition: who was she dating, where was she holidaying, when would she grant the tell-all the publishers had been hounding her for?
Her answer to the last question hadn’t changed in twelve months: ‘When hell freezes over.’
It had been a year since international soccer sensation Henri Jaillet had dumped her in spectacular orchestrated fashion, three years since basketball superstar Jimmy Ro had broken her heart.
Reportedly.
The truth? She’d known Jimmy since high school and they were the quintessential golden couple: king and queen of the graduation dance who morphed into media darlings once he hit the big time.
He’d launched her as a WAG and she’d lapped it up, happy to accept endorsements of clothes, shoes and jewellery.
For Cindy. Always for Cindy.
Everything she did was for her baby sister, which was why a tell-all was not on the cards.
She’d grown apart from Jimmy and when reports of his philandering continued to dog her, she’d quit the relationship when he wanted out.
The media had a field day, making her out to be a saint, a very patient saint, and the jobs had flooded in. From modelling gigs to hosting charity events, she became Melbourne’s latest ‘it’ girl.
And when her star had waned, she’d agreed to be Henri’s date for a specified time in exchange for a cash sum that had paid Cindy’s carer bills for a year.
Being tagged a serial WAG had stung, as people who didn’t know her labelled her money-hungry and a camera whore.
She tried not to care, though.
The only people that mattered—her and Cindy—knew the truth.
And it would stay that way, despite the ludicrous sums of money being dangled in front of her for a juicy tell-all.
Yeah, real juicy. Readers would be distinctly disappointed to learn of her penchant for flannel PJs, hot chocolate and a tatty patchwork quilt.
As opposed to the rumoured lack of sleepwear, martinis before bed and thousand-thread sheets she slept on.
She had no idea why the paparazzi made up stuff like that, but people lapped it up, and judged her because of it.
What would they think if they knew the truth?
That she loved spending a Saturday night curled up on the couch with Cindy under the old patchwork quilt their mum had made—and one of the few things Louisa had left behind when she’d abandoned them—watching the teen flicks her sister adored?
That she’d prefer to spend time with her disabled sister than any of the able-bodied men she’d dated?
That every word and every smile at events like this were part of a carefully constructed, elaborate mask to ensure her popularity and continued work that would set up Cindy’s care for life?
Being a WAG meant she could spend most of her time caring for Cindy; a part-time gig as opposed to a full-time job that would’ve taken her away from her sister.
It had suited their lifestyle, putting in infrequent appearances at galas or launches or openings in exchange for days spent attending Cindy’s physiotherapy and occupational therapy sessions, ensuring the spasticity in Cindy’s contracted muscles didn’t debilitate her limited mobility completely.
She’d sat through Cindy’s Botox injections into specific muscles to ease the pain and stiffness and deformity around joints, followed by extensive splinting to maintain movement.
She’d supported Cindy through intrathecal baclofen therapy, where a pump had been inserted into her sister’s abdomen to deliver doses of baclofen—a muscle relaxer—into her spinal fluid to ease the spasticity and relieve muscle spasms in her legs.
She’d been there for every session of speech therapy, muscle lengthening and strengthening, splinting, orthotics, mobility training and activities of daily living management.
Putting on a façade for the cameras might have been a pain in the butt but it had been a small price to pay for the time she’d been able to spend supporting Cindy every step of the way. The financial security? An added bonus.
Cindy’s care hadn’t come cheap and if a magazine wanted to pay her to put in an appearance at some B-list function, who was she to knock it back?
She almost had enough money saved... After tonight she could hang up her sparkly stilettos and leave her WAG reputation behind. Start working at something worthwhile. Something in promotions maybe? Put her marketing degree to use.
Cindy had progressed amazingly well over the years and Liza could now pursue full-time work in the knowledge she’d put in the hard yards with her sister’s therapy when it counted.
Cerebral palsy might be an incurable lifelong condition but, with Cindy’s determination, her amazing sis had reached a stage in her management plan where the spasticity affecting the left side of her body was under control and she maintained a certain amount of independence.
Liza couldn’t be prouder and could now spend more hours away from Cindy pursuing some of her own goals.
Though she wondered how many interviews ‘serial WAG’ would garner from her sketchy CV.
A local TV host laid a hand on her arm and she faked a smile, gushing over his recent award win, inwardly counting down the minutes until she could escape.
Think of the appearance money, she mentally recited, while nodding and agreeing in all the right places.
Another thirty minutes and she could leave her old life behind.
She could hardly wait.
* * *
Wade Urquart couldn’t take his eyes off the dazzling blonde.
She stood in the middle of the room, her shimmery bronze dress reflecting light onto the rapt faces of the guys crowding her.
With every fake smile she bestowed upon her subjects, he gritted his teeth.
She was exactly the type of woman he despised.
Too harsh? Try the type of woman he didn’t trust.
The same type of woman as Babs, his stepmother. Who at this very minute was doing the rounds of the room, doing what she did best: schmoozing.
Quentin had been dead less than six months and Babs had ditched the black for dazzling emerald. Guess he should respect her for not pretending. As she had for every moment of her ten-year marriage to his father.
A marriage that had driven the family business into the ground. And an irreversible wedge between him and his dad. A wedge that had resulted in the truth being kept from him on all fronts, both personally and professionally.
He’d never forgive her for it.
Though deep down he knew who should shoulder the blame for the estrangement with his dad. And he looked at that guy every morning in the mirror.
He needed to make amends, needed to ease the guilt that wouldn’t quit. Ensuring his dad’s business didn’t go bankrupt would be a step in the right direction.
Qu Publishing currently stood on the brink of disaster and it was up to him to save it. One book at a time.
If he could ever get a meeting with that WAG every publishing house in Melbourne was clamouring to sign up to a tell-all biography, he might have a chance. Her name escaped him and, having been overseas for the best part of a decade, he had no idea what this woman even looked like, but he could imagine that every one of her assets would be fake. However, it seemed Australia couldn’t get enough of their home-grown darling. He’d been assured by his team that a book by this woman would be a guaranteed best-seller—just what the business needed.
But the woman wouldn’t return his assistant’s international calls and emails. Not that it mattered. He knew her type. Now he’d landed in Melbourne he’d take over the pursuit, demand a face-to-face meeting, up the ante and she’d be begging to sign on the dotted line.
At times like this he wished his father had moved with the times and published children’s fiction. Would’ve made Wade’s life a lot easier, signing the next J.K. Rowling.
But biographies were Qu Publishing’s signature, a powerhouse in the industry.
Until Babs had entered the picture, when Quentin’s business sense had fled alongside his common sense, and he had hidden the disastrous truth.
Wade hated that his dad hadn’t trusted him.
He hated the knowledge that he’d caused the rift more.
It was why he was here, doing anything and everything to save his father’s legacy.
He owed it to him.
Wade should’ve been there for his dad when he was alive. He hadn’t been and it was time to make amends.
The bronzed blonde laughed, a surprisingly soft, happy sound at odds with the tension emanating from her like a warning beacon.
Even at this distance he could see her rigid back, the defensive way she half turned away from the guys vying for her attention.
Interesting. Maybe she was nothing like Babs after all. Babs, who was currently engaged in deep conversation with a seventy-year-old mining magnate who had as many billions as chins.
Yeah, some people never changed.
He needed a change. Needed to escape the expectations of a hundred workers who couldn’t afford to lose their jobs. Needed to forget how his father had landed his business in this predicament and focus on the future. Needed to sign that WAG to solve his problems.
And there were many. So many problems that the more he thought about it, the more his head pounded.
What he needed right now? A bar, a bourbon and a blonde.
Startled by his latter wish, he gazed at her again and his groin tightened in appreciation.
She might not be his type but for a wild, wistful second he wished she could be.
Eight years of setting up his own publishing business in London had sapped him, sucking every last ounce of energy as he’d worked his butt off. When he’d initially started he’d wanted a company to rival his father’s but had chosen to focus on the e-market rather than paper, trade and hardbacks. Considering how dire things were with Qu Publishing, his company now surpassed the one-time powerhouse of the book industry.
He rarely dated, socialised less. Building a booming digital publishing business had been his number-one priority. Ironic, he was now here to save the business he could’ve been in competition with if his dad had ever moved into the twenty-first century. And if he’d been entrusted with the truth.
Not that saving Qu mattered if Babs had her way.
The muscles in his neck spasmed with tension and he spun away, needing air before he did something he’d regret, like marching over to stepmommy dearest and strangling her.
He grabbed a whisky from a passing waiter and downed half of it, hoping to eradicate the bitterness clogging his throat. Needing a breather, he made his way to the terrace that wrapped across the front of the function room in wrought-iron splendour.
Melbourne might not have the historical architecture of London but the city’s beautiful hotels, like the Westin, could hold their own around the world.
He paced the marble pavers in a vain attempt to quell the urge to march back into that packed function room and blast Babs in front of everyone, media be damned.
Wouldn’t that go down a treat in tomorrow’s papers? publishing ceo bails up socialite stepmother, a real page-turner.
He wouldn’t do it, of course. Commit corporate suicide. Qu Publishing meant too much to him. Correction, his dad had meant everything to him, and Wade would do whatever it took, including spending however long in Melbourne to stop Babs selling his legacy.
Qu Publishing needed a saviour. He intended to walk on water to do it.
He cursed and downed the rest of his whisky, knowing he should head back inside and make nice with the publishing crowd.
‘Whatever’s biting your butt, that won’t help.’
Startled, he glanced to his right, where the bronze-clad blonde rested her forearms on the balcony, staring at him with amusement in her eyes.
Blue. With tiny flecks of green and gold highlighted by the shimmery dress. A slinky, provocative dress that accentuated her assets.
The whisky he’d sculled burned his gut. His excuse for the twisty tension tying it into knots.
Her voice surprised him as much as her guileless expression. Women who dressed like that usually wore calculating expressions to match their deliberately sexy garb and spoke with fake deference.
She sounded...amused. Concerned. Normal.
It threw him.
He prided himself on being a good judge of character. Hadn’t he picked Babs for a gold-digging tart the moment his dad had introduced her ten years ago?
His people radar had served him well in business too, but something about this woman made him feel off-kilter. A feeling he wouldn’t tolerate.
He needed to stay focused, remain in charge, to ensure he didn’t lose the one thing that meant anything to him these days.
And as long as she was staring at him with that beguiling mix of fascination and curiosity, he couldn’t concentrate on anything.
‘Can’t a guy have a drink in peace without being accused of drowning his sorrows?’
He sounded abrupt and uptight and rude. Good. She would raise her perfect pert nose in the air and stride inside on those impossibly high heels that glittered with enough sparkle to match her dress.
To his surprise she laughed; a soft, sexy sound that made his fingers curl around the glass as she held up her hands in a back-off gesture.
‘Hey, no accusations here. Merely an observation.’
A host of smartass retorts sprang to his lips and he planned on using them too. Until he glimpsed something that made him pause.
She was nervous.
He saw it in the way her fingertips drummed delicately on the stem of the champagne flute she clutched. Saw it in her quick look-away when he held her gaze a fraction too long.
And that contradiction—her siren vamp appearance contrasting with her uncertainty—was incredibly fascinating and he found himself nodding instead.
‘You’re right. I was trying to take my mind off stuff.’
The corners of her mouth curved upward, the groove in her right cheek hinting at an adorable dimple. ‘Stuff?’
‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’
‘I used to worry about stuff once.’
Intrigued by the weariness in her voice, he said, ‘Not anymore?’
‘Not after today,’ she said, hiding the rest of what she was about to say behind her raised glass as she took a sip.
‘What happened today?’
Her wistful sigh hit him where he least expected it. Somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.
‘Today I secured a future for someone very important to me.’
He didn’t understand her grimness or defensive posture, but he could relate to her relief. When he secured the future of Qu Publishing in memory of all his dad’s hard work, he’d be pretty damn relieved too.
‘Good for you.’
‘Thanks.’ She smiled again, sweet and genuine, and he couldn’t fathom the bizarre urge to linger, chat and get to know her.
She wasn’t in his plans for this evening. Then again, what did he have to look forward to? Putting on a front for a bunch of back-slapping phoneys and gritting his teeth to stop from calling his stepmother a few unsavoury names?
He knew what he’d rather be doing.
And he was looking straight at her.
‘Do you want to get out of here?’
Her eyes widened in surprise before a disapproving frown slashed between them. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me? I make polite small talk for two seconds and you’re propositioning me?’
She shook her head, her disgust palpable.
‘Let me rephrase that.’ He tried his best smile, the one he used to win friends and influence colleagues. Her frown deepened. ‘What I meant was that I’ve had a long day. Landed in Melbourne this morning, had to attend this shindig for work tonight and I’m tired of the schmoozing.’
He waved towards the balcony. ‘Considering you’re out here to get away from the crowd, I assume you’ve probably had a gutful too?’
Her wary nod encouraged him to continue when he should cut his losses and run.
‘The way I see it, we have two choices. Head back in there and bore ourselves silly for the next hour or we can head down to The Martini Bar in the lobby and unwind before we head home—I mean, before we go our separate ways.’