Mitchell threw up his hands. ‘I get it. I just don’t have time for it. Not now. I’ll learn about it later. I’ll take the time then—in six months when this tour is over.’
‘No.’ The consultant folded his arms across his chest. ‘If you don’t do as I ask for the next three weeks, I’ll notify your tour insurers. You won’t be covered.’
For the second time in two days Mitchell was shocked. He wasn’t used to people saying no to him. He was used to snapping his fingers and everyone doing exactly as he said. That was the joy of being a world-famous rock star. Once you earned beyond a certain point, people just didn’t say no any more.
He could almost feel the blood draining from his body—as if he didn’t feel sick enough already. ‘You wouldn’t do that.’ His voice cracked as he spoke. This nightmare was just getting worse and worse. First the weeks of feeling like death warmed over. Then the ill-timed diagnosis of diabetes. Now a threat to his tour.
‘I would, you know.’ The consultant’s chin was set with a determined edge. Mitchell recognised the look because he so frequently wore it himself. ‘A sick rock star is no insurer’s dream. You need to be healthy and in control to take part in the tour. To be frank, I don’t think three weeks of specialist care is going to cut it. Even then, you’ll need additional support on your tour. If you can’t even adhere to the first set of guidelines I give you, then...’ He let his voice tail off.
Mitchell’s stomach was churning. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t rich already. But this tour had been planned for two years. The proceeds were going towards the funding of the children’s hospital in this area. He’d supported it for years—but always on the condition that no one knew. The last thing he needed was the press invading the one part of his life that was still private. His funding had kept the children’s hospital afloat for the last ten years. But things had changed. The building couldn’t be repaired any more, the whole place needed to be rebuilt. And why rebuild anything half-heartedly? The plans had been drawn up and approved for a brand-new state-of-the-art facility. All they needed was the guaranteed cash. That’s why he couldn’t let them down—no matter how sick he was.
‘Fine. I’ll do it. Just find me someone.’ He walked away in frustration and started stuffing his clothes into a holdall.
The consultant gave him a nod and disappeared down the corridor, coming back five minutes later. ‘You’re in luck. The agency called, they’ve found you a nurse. Her qualifications are a little unusual but she’s got the experience we need.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means she’ll be able to help you manage your condition. I’ll send her some written instructions by email.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘She’ll be on a flight out of Gatwick at seven tonight. She’ll be here around eleven p.m.’ He pointed to the packed bag. ‘I’m not happy about discharging you until her plane lands.’
Mitchell shook his head and picked up the case with his injector pen. ‘You’ve taught me how to do the injections. I take ten units tonight before I eat.’ Then he pointed to another pen on the bedside table. ‘And twenty-six units of that one before I go to bed. I get it. I do. Now, let me go. The nurse will be here in a few hours and I’ll be fine until then.’
He could see the hesitation on the guy’s face. It had only been two days and he was sick of the sight of this place already. Hospitals weren’t much fun, even if you had the money to pay for a private room.
He tried his trademark smile. ‘Come on. How much trouble can I get into in a few hours?’
* * *
The plane journey had been a nightmare. The man next to her had snored and drooled on her shoulder from the second the plane had taken off until it had landed in Innsbruck. She’d been doing her best to concentrate on the info she’d downloaded onto her tablet about the latest types of insulin and pumps. She wasn’t sure what kind of regime her patient would be on but she wanted to have some background knowledge on anything she might face.
Her phone pinged as soon as she hit the tarmac. Great. An email from the doctor with detailed instructions. She struggled to grab her case from the revolving carousel and headed to the exit. She would have time to read the email on the journey to her hotel.
She scanned the arrivals lounge. Her heart gave a little jump when she saw a card with her name: ‘Samantha Lewis’. It was almost like being a pop star.
She trundled her case over to the guy in the thick parka. It was late at night and his hat was coated with thick snowflakes. There was something so nice about being in a place covered with snow at Christmastime. Even if it was bitterly cold.
‘Samantha Lewis?’ He grabbed the handle of her case as she nodded. ‘Is this it? Just one case?’
She grinned. ‘Why? How many should I have brought?’
His face broke into a wide smile as he shook his head. ‘Last time I picked someone up here she had ten suitcases, including one for her dog.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
He nodded. ‘No kidding.’ He had another look around. ‘No skis?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m here to work, not to ski.’
The guy’s brow wrinkled. ‘Hmm. Sorry.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Dave, Mitchell’s sidekick. You name it, I do it.’ He started to walk towards the exit. ‘I’ve got a jacket and hat for you in the car.’ His eyes skimmed up and down her body. ‘It might be a little big but it’s definitely your colour. I know you were called at short notice and we were worried you wouldn’t have any gear with you.’
She tilted her head to the side. ‘Who is Mitchell? I’ve not been told who I’m working for yet. And gear for what?’
An icy blast hit them as soon as they walked through the airport doors. Her grey duffel coat was no match for the winter Alpine temperatures. How nice. They’d bought her a coat and hat. She wasn’t quite sure whether to be pleased or insulted.
He raised the boot on a huge black four-by-four and pushed her case inside. It was the biggest one she owned but it looked tiny in there. She blinked as she noticed the winter tyres and snow chains. Just how deep was the snow around here? He opened the door for her and she climbed inside. On the seat behind her was a bright blue ski jacket, slightly longer in style so it would cover her bum, alongside a matching pair of salopettes, hat, gloves and flat fur-lined black boots.
Her fingers brushed the skin of the jacket. It felt expensive. Thickly padded but light to touch.
Dave climbed into the driver’s seat and nodded at the gear. ‘Told you it was your colour. It matches your eyes.’
She blushed. Her eyes were the one thing that most people commented on. She wasn’t sure whether being blonde-haired and blue-eyed was a blessing or a curse.
Dave started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, heading towards the main road. It felt like being in another world. They were surrounded by snow-covered Alps. The lights were glowing in the town in front of them. It looked warm and inviting against the black fir trees and high mountains.
‘So, you haven’t told me. Who do you work for?’
Dave’s eyes flitted sideways for a second to look at her then focused back on the road ahead. ‘No one’s told you?’ There was a knowing smile on his face.
She shrugged. ‘Not yet. But I thought I was going to have to sign the non-disclosure in blood.’
‘You’re lucky you didn’t.’ She was joking, but he made it sound as if he heard that every other day.
‘What’s the big secret?’ Curiosity was beginning to kill her. She hadn’t given it much thought on the plane flight over, she’d been too busy focusing on the diabetes aspects and developing plans for a newly diagnosed adult patient. Plus, she still had that email to read. She glanced at her phone. Her 3G signal had left her. She had no idea what phone signals would be like in the Alps. She would have to ask for wifi access when they reached the hotel.
> ‘Mitchell Brody. He’s the big secret. He’s just been diagnosed and he starts a world tour in three weeks. The timing couldn’t be worse.’
Her mouth fell open and her heart did a little stop-start. So not what she was expecting to hear. ‘Mitchell Brody? The Mitchell Brody?’ Now she understood the need for a non-disclosure agreement. Mitchell Brody, rock star, was pure media fodder. Every time the man blinked it practically made the news. Roguishly handsome, fit body and gorgeous smile. But he was the original bad boy. The papers were full of stories about him waking other guests in hotels by rehearsing at four in the morning. Huge headlines about bust-ups between band members and managers. Wrecked rooms and punch-ups with other stars were everyday news. Whoever was the model of the moment, was usually the woman photographed on his arm. He was worth millions, no, billions.
Dave shrugged. ‘Is there any other?’
She gulped. The neat plan she’d imagined in her head instantly scrambled. Mitchell Brody wasn’t the kind of guy who’d take kindly to planning all his meals and insulin doses. He lived by the seat of his pants. The guy had never played by the rules in his life—chances were, he wasn’t about to start now.