A Night with Damien Spur

Chapter 1

Damien Spur wasn’t afraid of being on the edge of a precipice. He usually took a deep breath and jumped.

Sometimes he wondered how he’d lived so long, what with his desire to flood himself with every wicked pleasure, which would probably speed him along to an early death.

But tonight there was no danger. He’d kept his nose clean. He was Damien Spur, the star novelist, who had written another brilliant thriller.

It was a warm summer’s evening in early June and Central London was a happy bustle of tourists and after-hours office workers enjoying glasses of chilled wine and alfresco dining in the street cafes, pubs and restaurants. Not quite the seasonal mass migration to Mediterranean climes yet, and so a perfect opportunity for book promotions and parties.

Time to celebrate , said the Voice in his head, as Damien stepped out of the limousine his publisher had sent for him.

‘Leave me alone,’ growled Damien. ‘I can do this on my own.’

But, despite being an extraordinary writer with many successes behind him, he didn’t believe that. Not really.

Apart from his literary gift he was also dangerously attractive. His eyes, an arresting navy blue, fixed a gaze that allowed no secrets, which some people found unsettling. But that warm smile, which reached his eyes and came unexpectedly, was a formidable weapon.

Especially when it came to women.

So tonight, impeccably dressed in a relaxed navy linen suit and white shirt, he ignored the Voice laughing quietly at him and stepped into the magnificent room overlooking Hyde Park, without any need to make his presence known.

Everyone was waiting for him; an electric thrill sparked through the crowded room.

He swooped a drink from a passing tray and was instantly surrounded, strangers throwing compliments at him like confetti.

‘Love it, Damien, love it! You’ve done it again. Great reviews. Writing in the Sand , a page-turner, a sixties-mood thriller. Ernest Hemingway meets Raymond Chandler.’

Though it had been said before, his smile lit up his face. Hemingway. Chandler. His literary heroes.

And then someone asked the inevitable question. ‘What next?’ Which was fine. There was always another novel in the pipeline, or a film deal.

Most of the time, the stories just came to him. Sometimes, he would wake in the middle of the night and the words flowed like a burst dam. At other times, he’d wait. Let the characters talk to him, lead him, and he would follow.

The Empress , his first novel, written in his early twenties, had been a huge success. That was swiftly followed by his next book, Legends Never Die , another winner. And so his prolific output had continued, which had kept his agent, Angus McManus, happy for over fifteen years.

Damien Spur, star of the stable, always raced through his bestsellers, keeping pace with his readers’ insatiable appetite for his books, while Angus cracked the whip.

‘Come on,’ he said when Damien slowed down. ‘Get that brain into gear. Spin those yarns.’

It suited Damien, spurred him on.

He loved being famous, making huge amounts of money from the gift the good Lord had given him. He thrived in the limelight.

Yes, but nobody knows you like I do , said the Voice in Damien’s head.

Oh, shut up , thought Damien, catching sight of a dazzling blonde standing tall amidst the usual dull literary flotsam.

Please, please, for once, just leave me alone . The blonde looked fresh and confident. Wide-eyed with a glittering smile, surrounded by a group of men eager to joust for her attention.

He wound his way towards his target. En route, he grabbed Elsa, a sexy ex, and paused to slip a smile at the lens of his favourite pap.

‘Damien, you bastard, great to see you,’ she whispered, and gave his ear a sharp nip. He winced at the camera. She smiled sweetly.

Click, click.

‘Hey, George, make sure you send me the images before you print.’

‘Yuh, boss!’ he said.

‘Thanks for that, Elsa.’ He rubbed his battered earlobe.

‘My pleasure, Damien.’

‘You’re such a bitch,’ he said.

‘Best in show. My bite’s always worse than my bark,’ she replied, and turned away. He moved on.

The blonde beauty was talking to his agent.

‘Ah, Damien!’ Angus said. ‘Our star. Let me introduce you to the charming Sophie Fox.’

‘I fully intended to introduce myself, but thank you,’ he said.

‘Oh, by the way, we need to discuss the film rights,’ Angus said as a parting shot.

Sophie Fox was even better close up.

The breeze from the open French window brought with it the faint sounds of picnic conversations, cyclists, children laughing, birdsong.

But Damien was not to be distracted.

Sophie’s red silk sleeveless dress flattered her slim, graceful body, falling just short of her knees. His eyes slipped down to her ankles, encased in delicate leather-strapped high-heeled sandals, which showed off her pretty feet and bright red toenails.

‘ Writing in the Sand is an intriguing title,’ she said. ‘Who wrote the message? Who sees it before it’s washed away? A stranger? Or someone the writer knows?’

A good opener. And he liked her voice. Low and throaty. Soothing, like a hot toddy on a cold night. He swallowed. He could see at a glance that it wasn’t going to be easy. She wasn’t the type to fall for a quick pitch.

I like her , said the Voice, startling Damien.

‘Y-yes,’ replied Damien. ‘Good titles create a platform for intelligent readers to project a storyline even before reading the book.’

He watched her face. Was she still interested? Yes, she was focused.

‘And that’s why I don’t like spoilers from the critics. Before today’s launch, the story has been kept strictly under wraps.’

For heaven’s sake, cut to the chase , said the Voice.

‘Must say, the reviews were fascinating, very mysterious. Couldn’t have asked for better publicity.’

Nearly there.

‘And with this title I’ve never pre-sold so many.’

Boom! Now, Damien, now… said the Voice. Switch gear. Enough about you. What about her?

‘So, are you very mysterious, Sophie?’

‘Let’s put it this way, I’m not going to tell my life story to a stranger.’

Not the sort of answer he was looking for. He’d have to try harder.

‘That’s fair,’ he said, ‘but a little bit of history makes a conversation more compelling, don’t you think?’

‘Okay, so what would you like to ask me?’

‘Are you married?’

‘Not anymore.’

‘Single?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Sometimes?’

‘When I feel I need a break,’ she said.

‘Mmm… That seems a good cue to me for your next hiatus. Why don’t I call your mobile and you’ll have my number if you feel like company,’ he said.

‘Didn’t bring it with me.’

‘Okay. Don’t have a piece of paper, but give me your arm.’ He took a sleek gold monogrammed fountain pen from the inside pocket of his jacket.

Sophie giggled as the tip tickled the inside of her arm.

He gave her a smile, and she blinked, her laughter fading. ‘The romance of a good fountain pen,’ said Damien. ‘Such a pleasure to control the flow of ink. Do you have a tissue?’

She took one from her satin evening bag. Softly, he blotted her smooth skin.

‘Now then, better not wash it away until you write it down. Unless, of course, you have no interest in keeping it.’

‘Why not? Always good to add entertaining people to my guest list. Do you always like to brand women like cattle?’

‘Only if they become my chattel.’

‘Hold your horses! We’ve only just met, and you’re already giving me the caveman chat.’

‘But I’ve already made up my mind – you’re definitely the one.’

‘Well, I like your enthusiasm, but I’m a slow burner.’

‘That’s fine. I can wait. Better than a quick-fire romance,’ he said.

It was the way he said it that made Sophie laugh. As if he were playing the smitten lover.

A wry grin spread across his face, as if to say, “How was I?”

You were great, Damien. Not too intense. But you’re really keen, aren’t you? Admit it. Like I always say, nobody knows you like I do , said the Voice.

George the pap whisked around.

Damien kept his grin as the photographer snapped. And that’s when he blew it.

Plucking a pistachio from the porcelain dish, he tried to prise the stubborn shell open with his finger, but the gap was too narrow, and his nail got stuck. He yanked it out and popped the nut in his mouth and, clamping the edge of the shell with his teeth, split his incisor.

A needle of pain shot through his mouth and into his head. He clapped his hand to his lips, his eyes squeezing shut.

That’s really blown your cool, hasn’t it? sighed the Voice.

Sophie’s laughter stopped abruptly. ‘Damien?’ she said, frowning, her hand gripping his forearm. ‘Are you okay? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’

‘My tooth,’ mumbled Damien.

What a klutz! said the Voice. Just don’t make a fuss. Say goodbye and go , but Damien was already raising his hand in a polite farewell to Sophie, and heading for the door.