Heads turned as the striking brunette kissed him on the cheek. Celine Wood was pushing forty but she was still one of the most famous models in the world, so it had been a real coup dragging her up to Scotland for the opening.
‘Happy New Year. Are you not going out to watch the fireworks?’
‘I’ve come in for a drink. Here, take this, you look as if you need one,’ she said, handing him a flute of champagne.
‘Cheers,’ he said, taking a quick sip. ‘I’ve not slept for forty-eight hours.’
‘Well you still look as gorgeous as ever,’ she said, wiping a smudge of lipstick from the corner of his mouth. ‘Even more gorgeous than Munroe.’
Jim smiled nervously, wondering if Celine Wood was coming on to him. They’d met and possibly flirted before, but Jim was never sure, whenever he met these showbiz sorts, what was standard-issue interaction and what was the green light for something else. He certainly didn’t want to make a fool of himself tonight trying to find out.
‘Mr Johnson, could I have a word?’
He frowned as the concierge approached.
‘There’s a rumpus at the front gates.’
‘A rumpus?’ he said, quickly getting rid of his drink.
Celine didn’t take her eyes off him.
‘A security issue, sir. I think you should come and deal with it.’
Jim glanced at Celine, who pulled her famously sultry lips into a downwards curve.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, touching her shoulder.
‘You might be needing this later,’ she whispered as she pushed something into his pocket. ‘Come and find me if you do.’
Pressing his lips together, he buttoned his dinner jacket, and followed the concierge to the manager’s office across the hall, allowing himself a quick backwards glance towards Celine. She was already gone from her spot at the bar. Just as well.
He was ushered in front of a TV monitor, all eyes in the room upon him.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, looking at the flickering black and white camera footage.
‘Problem at the front gate,’ said Munroe’s head of security. ‘This gentleman is a little excitable, shall we say. Says his name is Lord Brodie. Says he wants to come in.’
‘Oh God,’ muttered Jim, watching the monitor with a sinking feeling.
‘Do you know him?’ asked the concierge.
‘Yes.’
‘Should we let him in?’
‘Not in that state.’
‘So what should we do?’
Jim had spent the past forty-eight hours with people looking to him for answers. Munroe’s newly minted general manager, the PR company, the marketing director, communications director and CEO of Omari Hotels, his employers – everyone wanted a little piece of him, and having had so little sleep since he arrived in Scotland two days earlier, he felt as if he was about to snap.
‘Call him a taxi, then go to the gate and make sure the cab takes him wherever he wants to go,’ he said, already halfway out of the office. ‘As long as it’s not up here.’
He checked his watch: still six minutes left of the fireworks display. He crossed to the ballroom and checked on the buffet. It had been replenished, the duck, venison, trout all glistening in the candlelight. Good.
He knew he should go and look for the piper who was due to play from the ramparts after the crowds had gone – but no, that could wait a few minutes.
Grabbing an open bottle of champagne, he slipped down a passageway, weaving his way through the castle until he reached a wrought-iron gate that led into Munroe’s walled garden. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, grateful to note that he was alone.