Duke It Out (Loch Morven #1)

Chapter 1

You knew this was going to be weird, Edie.

I raise my chin and swallow hard, fixing my gaze in the approximate direction of the stage.

Annabel Findlay strides through the seated crowd, her long legs clad in dark brown leather trousers, honey-blonde hair swaying with each step. Murmurs of appreciation turn into applause as she mock-bows and takes her seat.

I clap too, once I uncurl my fingernails from my palms.

“Annabel, you don’t need any introduction,” the host begins. Then he introduces her, of course. “You’re an internationally renowned model and actress who turned to a career on the other side of the lens.”

I’m convinced there’s a cloning machine somewhere cranking out cookie-cutter Publishing Men.

The host is a pint-sized guy with narrow shoulders, dressed in a black rollneck and dark jeans.

At five eight, I’d absolutely tower over him – and honestly, if I sat on his lap, he’d probably fold like a deckchair.

Annabel reaches for the glass of champagne on the table, dazzling him with her world-famous smile as the spotlights pick up the golden glow of her hair.

“I’m sure we all want to know how it felt – after a career spanning well over thirty years – to put pen to paper and write your memoir.”

“You make me sound quite ancient” Annabel laughs, glancing in our direction for a fleeting moment.

I’m standing behind Marcia, the publishing director, and Roo, the editor. They lift their hands and give little finger-wiggling waves of acknowledgement.

“—well, it was very much a team effort…”

Everyone who knows anything knows that’s publishing code for someone else wrote it .

That’s where I come in – hovering on the sidelines, watching someone else sign copies of the book I wrote, while everyone gushes about how touching and hilarious her work is.

It could be worse. They could be saying it’s a pile of crap, so I’ll take that as a win.

My literary agent, Charlotte, gives me a sideways look, her arched brow eloquent.

It’s far from standard practice to have a ghostwriter at a book launch, but she pulled some strings, and here we are.

I’ve spent five years ghost-writing literary wonders like Cat Care for Beginners and Tarot Tips for Weekend Witches.

The only reason I landed this gig is because Annabel – her old school friend and client – fired the first two experienced writers.

Honestly, no one was more shocked than me when I got the job.

I’ve been dreaming since I was a little girl about the day I’d see my words in print. There’s just one tiny detail: with the iron-clad NDA I’ve signed, nobody will ever know the truth.

Annabel Findlay was a beautiful rebel from an upper- class family.

At sixteen, she’d run away from the boarding school to become a model in Marrakesh, dating some of the most famous rock stars in the world and gracing the covers of glossy magazines, not to mention countless gossip websites.

At least half the stories she’d shared with me hadn’t made it to print because they were so salacious and scandalous that they’d have resulted in a stack of lawsuits.

“We’d love to hear an excerpt, Annabel,” says the host, cupping his chin as he looks at her, starstruck.

She has that effect on people.

“Gosh…” Annabel gushes, and the whole room melts. “Well, perhaps a teeny passage or two.”

She opens her copy of the memoir at a page, which is marked with a fluorescent pink Post-it, and starts to read in her husky, hypnotic tones.

Everyone hangs on to every word. I’m caught up in it as well – which is weird, considering I wrote it – until she stops unexpectedly and slams the book closed with a throaty laugh.

“If you want to know what happens,” Annabel says, “you can find out for yourselves when you buy a copy.”

Somehow, the hard sell sounds charming coming from her, and the room erupts into laughter.

Annabel sips her champagne as the host checks his notes briefly before sliding them back onto the table beside the untouched jug of iced water.

“Let’s hope Annabel was paying attention to the publicist’s briefing,” Marcia says, turning back to look at us, her eyebrows lifting slightly.

I wipe my palms down the side of my black dress and tug at the hemline, as if that’s going to make everything better somehow. My shoes are pinching my toes already .

“She means” – Charlotte leans toward me and mutters – “that if she goes off script now, we’re fucked.”

I snort, which makes Marcia turn around sharply.

“That’s why the publicist looks like a sniper waiting to take down an assassin?” I whisper.

Charlotte gives a brief nod. “If she does go off-piste, it’ll mean more book sales, so…”

I’ve got no skin in the game at this point. My payment was up front, and I don’t get a cut of the royalties. I had to use my overdraft to cover my expenses for this trip, and you bet I’m going to take advantage of the free champagne and snacks afterwards.

The good news is she’s telling them a relatively tame story about her time on the catwalk back in the 90s.

The crowd are listening, rapt. I’m looking out at Union Square, watching the stallholders from the farmers’ market packing up for the night.

Abraham Lincoln stands in the middle of the square, watching everything.

Charlotte clears her throat and nudges me in the ribs, drawing my attention back to the stage with an almost imperceptible tip of her head.

“With a life as full as yours, it must have been hard to decide what to put in and what to leave out,” the host muses. The publicist raises her chin slightly and looks on with narrowed eyes. Everyone leans forward in their chair at once.

“Well, darling…” Annabel leans towards him conspiratorially, a catlike smile on her face. “It was more a case of making sure one wasn’t going to be sued by the great and the good.”

“And she’s off,” says Charlotte, raising her crossed fingers. “Let’s hope she stays this side of legal.”

A staff member is stacking glasses at the far end of the room, half-tuned in to stories I’ve heard more times than I can count – live, and via an endless barrage of 2 a.m. voice notes.

I am very ready for the champagne and canapés portion of the evening.

My stomach growls loudly as Annabel pauses for breath.

“Thank fuck for that,” says Charlotte thirty minutes later. “Gold star for Annabel. Back in two secs.”

It’s over, and there’s an immediate rush as the staff appear out of nowhere and start herding people into lines, removing the folding chairs and clearing the space.

Somehow, the publishing staff has managed to get their hands on the champagne already, and they’re in a huddle, laughing and talking with a very distinct air of relief.

I’m standing aside, trying to look inconspicuous and casual at the same time, which is harder than it looks.

“Here we are.” Charlotte reappears with two glasses of champagne, passing one to me and gently touching her glass to mine. “A little toast, Edie, to your very first words in print. And not the last.”

I take a sip and feel the bubbles bursting on my tongue and the dry, acidic taste. I think I skipped the champagne gene… but it’s that or nothing. I swallow another mouthful and hide a grimace.

“That reminds me,” Charlotte says, tucking a blonde lock behind her ear. “Dragons.”

She might be teeny tiny and blonde and give the impression of being scatty and feather-headed, but secretly, she’s a terrier in heels. She knows everyone in the industry and can smell a trend from ten miles off. And no, I have no idea why she signed me up.

“What?”

“Dragons.” She nods. “I’ve been thinking about your manuscript, and I think that’s what it needs. ”

“You want me to add dragons to a Jane Austen-era romance?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Perhaps a little rewrite. Less of the historical, more of the romantasy. It’s selling like hot cakes right now.” She gestures to three huge posters on the wall. “See what I mean?”

I rub my chin. “I thought you said ghost-writing for Annabel would be a really great way to get noticed by Marcia and that you’d have a word and I’d be pretty much guaranteed a deal for my…”

She nods again, but not very convincingly. “You know how it is. They’re tightening belts right across the board. That’s why I thought maybe you could re-jig it a bit, add some?—”

“Dragons.”

“Exactly.” She beams.

A champagne cork pops on the other side of the room, and I drain my glass in anticipation. I know precisely zero about dragons, and right now, the book deal I’ve been dreaming of feels as far away as it’s ever been.

“I knew you’d be on board,” Charlotte chirps. “This could be a real step in the right direction.”

I don’t say anything, because what can I say? Here I am in New York, on a trip to watch the book being launched. That’s basically unicorn treatment for a jobbing writer.

The gaggle of publishing people flock to air-kiss Annabel, who shoots me a wink over one of their shoulders.

She accepts a fresh glass of champagne from a tall, dark-haired bartender who appears at her side and laughs at something he says, because that’s the sort of person she is – nice.

It’s something that surprised me when I took the job.

I assumed that someone as glamorous and rich as her would be a bit of a bitch, but…

no. There’s an entire chapter about the moment she looked in the mirror and realized she didn’t like who she was becoming.

So she spent six months at a retreat in Thailand, and now?

She’s actually a genuinely kind person. Which is so rare.

Charlotte gives me a little pat on the arm, as if I were a horse. “You’re a talented writer, Edie,” she says. “It’ll all work out in the end. Now, must dash and say well done to Annabel, then love you and leave you. I have dinner with an editor I’m hoping to charm in half an hour.”