The Foster Husband Read Online Free PDF

he wanted out of his colleagues without sending a junior to ask for it, there was really
no hope for him.
    If you ask directly for what you want, you allow the possibility that someone will say no. You have to be smarter than that, surely?
    To absolutely no one’s surprise, the show was running two hours late. The only saving grace was that we weren’t broadcasting live. I was checking the running order
backstage, and wondering how long it would take to get everyone out of there – the de-rig would start minutes after the last artist stepped off stage – when the mysterious head of
marketing made his first appearance. I didn’t notice him at first, but there was some whispering at the door and it was distracting me from my time-keeping, so I looked up to ask whoever it
was to be quiet.
    A tall man stood at the door, looking furious, as one of the South African security guys tried to stop him coming into the room. He was wearing a suit, which was enough to make him look out of
place amongst the backstage crew in our jeans and T-shirts, but the lanyard around his neck told me he had to be part of the team. He had brows as dark as the hair that flopped down over his
forehead, and they were pulled together in an expression of harassment and bewilderment that was painfully familiar to me after two weeks of dealing with the craziness of Lagos. It was almost
enough to make me feel sorry for him. Until he opened his mouth.
    ‘Kate Bailey?’ He wrenched his arm away from the security man, and I nodded to let Dirk know it was okay to let him go.
    I raised my eyebrows in expectation as he strode across the room towards me.
    ‘Are
you
Kate Bailey?’ As he got closer he looked uncertain.
    ‘Yes,’ I said, looking back down at my figures to let him see I was busy.
    ‘Oh right. You’re younger than I expected.’
    ‘Really?’ I sighed, looking up. I got this all the time; it was both a blessing and a curse to look younger than I was. Usually I made it work in my favour: either people
underestimated me completely, or the fact that I’m small and blonde and young made a certain kind of man soften towards me – and I have no compunction in taking full advantage of
that.
    ‘Well, you don’t look like . . . I mean, Ball-Basher Bailey; I just expected . . . sorry.’
    He quickly held out his hands in supplication, as if I didn’t already know that was my nickname at Hitz. To be honest I encouraged it: I found that having a reputation as a ball-breaker
got half my job done by intimidating people in advance. Pre-warned to find me scary, people backed down without me even having to raise my voice.
    ‘Now’s not a great time,’ I said, pointing at the paperwork that lay in front of me. ‘I’m just trying to work out what time we’re going to finish so I can
brief the de-rig.’
    ‘Then it
is
a great time,’ said Matt, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to me uninvited. ‘Because that’s what I need to know. I’ve got ice
sculptures melting all over the room and a load of angry sponsors.’
    ‘And you are?’ I said meanly. Of course I knew who he was, but it annoyed me that he hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself, and had just launched in with complaints.
    ‘Shit, sorry,’ he said, slapping his palm to his forehead. He looked much younger when he laughed. The furrows on his forehead relaxed, and his eyes creased into a smile. ‘Matt
Martell, head of marketing. Sender of multiple emails. Bane of your life.’
    I couldn’t help smiling back, but I wasn’t going to let him off that easily.
    ‘Purchaser of ice sculptures in the subtropics,’ I said. ‘I know you’re new in the job, Matt Martell, but who in their right mind orders ice sculptures for a party with a
start time that can best be described as flexible?’
    ‘It wasn’t me!’ he insisted. ‘It’s the sponsor who’s paid for them, and by the time their guests get there, the sculptures are going to look like Slush