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Chapter 1

Gemma Heath leaned forward and picked up the morning edition of the London Probe from her desk. It was time for a coffee, and a quick catch-up on the latest celebrity gossip was just what she needed after a crazy-busy morning.

She glanced around her tiny but oh-so-familiar office. Dominic had said she might quit her job at Dashwood and James now that they were married; it wasn’t as if she needed to work as Rhys Gordon’s personal assistant any longer.

Her husband was a rock star, after all, with masses of fans and masses of money. She could afford to stay home, just like the other celebrity wives. Gemma sipped her tea and frowned. But she still hadn’t handed in her notice. She liked her job, for one thing. She’d worked damned hard to get here.

No matter what the tabloids might say, Dom’s money wasn’t the reason she’d married him. She’d married him because she loved him.

Oh, the money was nice, and no mistake. After years of taking the Tube and buying her knickers in three-packs at Primark, she loved strolling into Prada, Boodles or Hermès and laying down the black AmEx card to buy shoes or a bracelet or a gorgeous silk scarf without a thought to the cost. But Dominic meant more to her than a generous credit limit or a hefty amount in their bank balance. He was sweet, and loving, and attentive – and he’d put his womanizing escapades of the past firmly behind him.

Despite his birth into the aristocratic Locksley family, Rupert had left at seventeen to go on the road, travelling with the band in a van that was forever breaking down, living on Pot Noodles and struggling to make it as a musician, and he’d done it with no help from his family. He changed his name to Dominic Heath to please his father, Lord Locksley, who demanded his son not ‘besmirch’ the Locksley name with his regrettable rock career.

Crikey, hard to believe people actually used words like ‘besmirch’ in this day and age, Gemma thought uncharitably as she set her cup down. But in her father-in-law’s case, she wasn’t surprised. If you looked up ‘snob’ in the OED, you’d find Charles Locksley’s photo staring right back at you. Truth to tell, he always made her feel lacking… in background, in comportment, in – well, in just about everything. Still, she and the Locksleys were family now, whether his lordship liked it or not, and he’d just have to get used to it.

“Good morning, Gemma.”

She looked up as Rhys, her boss at Dashwood and James, strode in with his briefcase in hand and headed to his office.

“Good morning, Rhys. Shall I get you a coffee?”

“No thanks, I got one on the way in. The meeting ended early.”

As she heard his briefcase snap open and the sound of his voice on the phone, asking to speak to someone at the Croydon store, Gemma hurriedly flicked through the Probe.

She had to let Rhys know her decision, and soon. Today, possibly…

She sighed. She loved her job as Rhys’s assistant. It was demanding, but paid well; and Rhys was wonderful to work with, challenging at times, with the devil’s own temper, but fair. And now, thanks to Dominic, she could become a lady of leisure if she liked – and hopefully a mum as well, and soon.

The thought made her smile in anticipation. She adored Dom and couldn’t wait to start a family with him.

Gemma took another sip of her tea and had a quick glance at the headlines. Another reality-show star admitted she’d had Botox – really, was that even news? – and that hot new Latin pop singer was back in rehab again, no surprise there.

She turned the page and froze.

Dominic stared back at her in lurid, four-colour glory.

Her rock-star husband was prominently featured on pages three and four of London’s most notorious tabloid – with a beautiful girl clinging to his arm, looking up adoringly into his eyes.

And this girl, Gemma noted in burgeoning anger, wasn’t her. This particular girl – Christa, the new pop singing sensation – had striking turquoise-blue eyes, a face to make an angel weep, and a body to make the devil smile.

Christa shot to fame when her duet with Dominic, “Promise Me Stars”, rocketed to number one in the UK charts. Half-Indian and half-British, Christa was beautiful, talented and popular – but she’d disappeared shortly after producing a single smash album.

Why, everyone wanted to know, had she withdrawn so abruptly from the music scene? And where had she gone? Her producer wanted to know. The tabloids wanted to know. Her fans wanted to know. But Christa wasn’t talking.

Now here she was…boarding a private jet – Dom’s private jet – on Dom’s arm! The photographs swam out of focus as tears blurred Gemma’s vision. Everyone had warned her that Dominic was a serial womanizer who’d cheat on her and break her heart into tiny pieces at the first opportunity. He’d sworn to her that he’d changed – and she’d believed him. Now it looked as if they’d all been right.

Without bothering to read the story that accompanied the coy headline (“Dominic and Christa: Making More Than Music?”), Gemma snatched up the phone and punched in Dominic’s private mobile number with vicious jabs of her indigo-blue fingernails.

Twelve rings later, there was a fumbling sound and a muffled “Hello?”

Gemma wasted no words. “What’s Christa doing with you,” she demanded, “and why are you both canoodling on your jet on page three of the Probe?”

“Wha…? Gemma…is that you?”

“Of course it’s me, Dominic,” she snapped, “who else would it be?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is she there with you now?”

“No, of course she’s not! And we weren’t ‘canoodling’,” he added grumpily as he sat up – alone – in bed. “What the hell does ‘canoodling’ mean, anyway?”

“What’s going on, Dominic? Why are you and this singer,” she invested the word with scorn “so bloody cosy in the Probe?”

On the other end of the phone, Dominic let out a short breath. “Listen, babes, it’s nothing. Christa’s just feeling a bit…overwhelmed. All the sudden fame’s got to her. She needs some time away.”

“Time away from what?” Gemma demanded, and angrily brushed her tears aside. “Being famous, and gorgeous? Yes, that takes so much out of a girl. And what about me, you knob? I could do with a little ‘time away’ myself, you know.”

“I know it’s asking a lot, but try to understand, Gems,” he said, and a note of irritation crept into his voice. “Christa’s gone overnight from being a back-up singer no one’s ever heard of, living in Bethnal Green, to being an international star. It’s doing her head in.”

“Oh, I get that,” Gemma conceded, her voice deceptively calm, “but what I don’t get is why you’ve appointed yourself as her personal tour guide on this little ‘time away’ adventure.”

“Because Christa needs my help,” he said, trying to hold on to his patience, “and because I have the Lear. I offered to take her away from everything for a while, until she gets her head together.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “But what about your new solo album? What about your fans? What about me? We’ve only been married a few months. We’re still practically newlyweds.”

“I’ll be back in a week or so. We haven’t started recording yet, so it’s all good.”

“Does Max know about this?”

Max Morecombe, Dominic’s long-suffering agent, was the only person – outside of herself – who could keep the rock star in line.

“‘Course he knows,” Dom grumbled. “He doesn’t much like it, but he understands. Which is more,” he couldn’t help adding, “than I can say for you.”

“I understand this – your story’s a big load of bollocks,” Gemma retorted. “Besides, you need to start rehearsals for your new album soon, and you haven’t even picked out the songs yet—”

“It takes time to write a song! I don’t just crap ’em out like laying eggs, Gemma. Besides, I’m going for a different sound this time around.” Dominic flung the covers aside and stood up. “I can’t be an effing punk rocker for ever, you know. I’m not nineteen any more. I need to grow as a musician. I want to explore other styles—”

“You want to explore Christa’s knickers, you mean.”

Dominic let out a pent-up breath of frustration. “I don’t know why I bother talking to you, Gemma. I really don’t. You always jump to the wrong conclusion. You don’t trust me, not at all. You just don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it, all right,” she flung back. “You’re doing what you do best – reverting to form and chasing after another skirt.” She leaned back in her chair and eyed her laptop through eyes awash with angry tears. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Dom, I have work to do.”

“Wait!” Dominic protested. “You can’t just ring off in the middle of a conversation.”

“Au contraire, Dominic, I can. And I will. But first,” she lifted her shoulder to keep the mobile phone in place against her ear “I have one last thing to say to you.”

“Yeah?” he snapped. “And what’s that?”

Gemma yanked the wedding ring from her finger and threw it down on her desk. “You can have your ring back. We’re through. Oh… and give my best to Christa. Happy canoodling. Bye.”

And with that, she rang off, and burst into tears.

Good job she hadn’t turned in her notice yet…

A moment later, her boss, Rhys Gordon, appeared in his doorway, a look of concern on his face. “Gemma? What the hell’s going on? Is everything all right?”

She grabbed a tissue from the box he held out to her and blew her nose. “No, it’s not all right! It’s Dominic again… like it always is. We’re through. This time,” she added firmly, “for good.”

Having heard this refrain many times before, Rhys knew better than to believe it. “What’s the little sod done this time? Or should I say…who’s he done this time?”

Gemma sniffled. “Her name’s Christa. She’s half-Indian, half-Anglo, and one hundred percent gorgeous.”

“Christa? Oh, yes. I’ve heard her song on the radio. Repeatedly,” he added. “Natalie loves it.”

“According to Dominic, she can’t cope with the sudden fame. I don’t buy it for a minute, though.”

Rhys shrugged. “Who knows? It sounds reasonable enough. That’s the problem with Dominic – there’s always a tiny bit of truth buried somewhere in amongst the bullshit.”

“Well, I can tell you this much,” Gemma said determinedly, “married or not, I’m through with Dominic Heath. And you can take that to the bank.”

Chapter 2

Christa picked up her mobile phone, took a deep breath, and scrolled to her mother’s number. There was no use in putting it off any longer; she owed her mum an explanation for her abrupt departure.

“Hi,” she said when her mother answered. “It’s me.”

“Christa? Where are you? Tell me, what’s going on?” Deepa Shaw demanded.

“Nothing’s going on, Mum, I’m fine. I just needed a break.” She glanced around her at the interior of Dominic Heath’s personal Lear jet. “The paparazzi, the constant interviews and press conferences…it was too much, too fast.”

It was amazing, she reflected with a twinge of guilt, just how easy it was to lie when you were partly telling the truth. “I don’t believe you. I know you better than anyone, jaanu. Tell me – what’s really going on?” her mother pressed.

“Why have you abandoned your singing career, eh? Please tell me you’ve found a nice Goan boy instead?”

“No,” Christa said firmly, “I haven’t, Mum, sorry. And I didn’t abandon my career. I just needed a break from it.”

“A break?” Mrs Shaw echoed. “A break from being famous? Saints preserve us, have you lost your mind? Being famous is all you’ve ever wanted!”

Christa didn’t answer. Perhaps she had lost her mind.

After all, she’d walked away from a brilliant record deal, a top-ten single in the UK charts, and a beautiful town house in Primrose Hill.

She’d achieved everything she’d ever dreamed of. And she’d worked bloody hard to do it. All those years of singing back-up, dodging various band members’ wandering hands on tour, paying her dues recording commercial jingles and radio ads, singing at weddings and in hole-in-the-wall clubs where the patrons were too drunk to listen to her sing…

How to explain to mum that she had a very good reason for leaving her newfound fame behind?

“If you ever question me again,” Tony ground out as he stood above her, fists clenched at his side, “I promise you, Christa, the next time, you won’t regain consciousness.”

It took nearly two weeks for the bruises and black eye to fade. She cancelled two nights of the northern leg of her tour and rescheduled six interviews. When she finally ventured back in public, pancake make-up hid the remnants of Tony’s beating, and carefully placed scarves hid the throttle marks on her neck.

“No, Mum, singing is all I ever wanted,” Christa corrected her. “It’s the fame I can’t deal with. I can’t go anywhere without being photographed – at the grocery store, in my car, even in the ladies’ loo. I’ve had to change my mobile phone number three times already. It’s ridiculous.”

And it was ridiculous. Why should anyone care if she bought herself freesias at the corner market, or a tabloid at the newsagents? What did it matter if she went to get a cup of chai with her mates or went to her girlfriend’s birthday party in Fulham?

Yet it did matter. Ever since her duet with Dominic Heath climbed to number one on the UK pop charts, nothing she did escaped public scrutiny. From her lip gloss to her love life to what she had for breakfast, everything was fodder for the tabloids. And although it was annoying, and although she knew she’d for ever lost her privacy, Christa accepted those losses as the price of fame.

No, she decided with a heavy heart, better to let everyone think she simply couldn’t deal with the pressures of her sudden celebrity. Her family – and her mother in particular – must never know the truth.

“I don’t understand you young people!” Deepa scolded. “The freedom you have to do as you like, to be anything you like, and yet you’re still not happy. When I was your age, I was already married and pregnant with you, running a household, cooking and cleaning and being a good wife.”

Christa groaned inwardly as she listened to a refrain she’d heard, over and over again, as long as she could remember. According to Mum, the only route to happiness for a young woman was marriage and lots of babies.

Two things had saved Christa from a traditional Indian arranged marriage; her mother’s rejection of the Goan man her own parents had chosen for her (in favour of an Irishman), and the fact that Christa had left home at sixteen.

“Meet a nice young man and have his babies, that’s what makes a woman happy, Christa,” her mother was saying, “not chasing after fame and fortune and a career in music.”

“It didn’t make you happy, did it?” Christa snapped.

Instantly, she regretted the words. Although it was true her father was a selfish bastard who’d kept Mum from her family in Mumbai, it was hardly her mother’s fault.

“In that, you are wrong,” Deepa said firmly after a brief, wounded silence. “I was very happy raising you, making sure you had everything you needed. That was more than enough for me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Christa sighed. “It’s just that I don’t want to settle down, Mum, at least…not yet. There’s too much I want to do, too much I need to accomplish, first.”

“Just don’t leave it too long, jaanu,” Deepa warned her, “or you’ll grow too old to have babies, too old to attract a worthy man. You’ll end up like your Auntie Bal, old and alone, taking in mending and eking out a living in the market stalls.”

“I have to go,” Christa told her mother as Dominic Heath boarded the jet with a guitar and a noticeable scowl. Uh-oh, he must have problems with Gemma, once again… “We’re almost ready for take-off. We’ll talk again soon.”

“You’re on a plane?” On the other end of the phone, Deepa made a clucking noise. “Go then. At least you had the decency to call and let me know you’re all right. I was worried.” Her voice softened. “I love you, Christa.”

“I love you, too, Mum. I’ll call soon. I promise.”

“What’s wrong, Dominic?” she asked the rock singer – who looked like he’d just rolled out of bed – as she ended her call. “You look as if Arsenal just lost the world cup, or something.”

“It’s Gemma,” he answered as he laid his guitar down. “She’s pissed off at me yet again, because she thinks you and me are an item. She took her wedding ring off, says she wants a divorce.”

Christa looked at him in dismay. “Oh no. I’m so sorry, Dom. She’s really got the wrong end of the stick… Do you want me to call her and explain?”

“Shit, no!” he said with a shudder. “That’ll just make everything nineteen times worse. Let sleeping cogs lie. Or whatever that saying is. Besides, it’s none of her bloody business why you’re here, is it?”

Christa couldn’t argue with that. The fewer people who knew the real reason she’d really run away, the better. “Still,” she pointed out, “you owe Gemma some kind of an explanation.”

“I did explain. I stuck to our cover story. I told her all that overnight attention did your head in. But it didn’t matter. Gemma didn’t believe me anyway,” he went on, his scowl deepening. “She never does. She always thinks the worst of me. And I’m bloody sick of it.”

His friends had warned him about getting married. She’ll throw your past in your face every chance she gets, they said. And she’ll never trust you.

And they’d been right.

“Do you ever get tired of all this?” Christa asked curiously as he flung himself down next to her.

“Tired?” He sighed. “I’m always fucking tired.”

“No, I mean tired of this.” She swept one hand out to encompass the interior of the private jet. “This life – the paparazzi, the obsessive fans. The tabloids. The fame.”

Dominic shrugged. “Sometimes, yeah. It’s not always all it’s cracked up to be.” He eyed her in sympathy. “Getting to you, is it?”

“A bit,” she admitted, and frowned. “I mean, being famous is everything I’ve always wanted, and yet…it’s not how I thought it would be. It’s a kind of prison, isn’t it? It’s a nice one, but still – a prison. I only ever imagined the singing when I started out – recording my first album, headlining concerts. I never gave a thought to all of the normal things, the everyday things, I’d be giving up.”

“Yeah, like going down the pub for a drink, or having a shop without sneaking in the back entrance, or wearing a hat and scarf and sunglasses everywhere you go. Or having a wife who trusts you not to shag every woman you see.

Christa drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “Do you ever regret it, Dom?”

“What? Being famous?” he asked, startled. “I dunno. I never gave it much thought, to be honest. It’s all right, most of the time. The good stuff outweighs the bad.” He reached out and took her hand. “Speaking of the bad,” Dominic added gently, “how are you holding up? Are you all right?”

He saw traces of discolouration still showing around her left eye, where her boyfriend had punched her. The thought of it swept him with renewed outrage.

“I’m fine.” Christa squeezed his hand.

“Are you sure? What about Tony? Will you press charges against him?”

She shook her head. “Why bother?” she asked, her words weary and bitter. “If I go to the police, he’ll only beat me again, and harder, the next time. I’m not making excuses for him, mind,” she added as Dominic bristled, “but he’s scared, Dom. He’s got mixed up with a Turkish gang, and he owes them drugs money.”

“That’s his problem, not yours. And if what you say is true, he’s involved in some serious shit, Christa. If he doesn’t pay up, they’ll kill him. Those lot don’t mess around.”

“I know. And I don’t know where he’ll get the money.”

“Well, I know this much.” Dominic straightened. “It’s not your problem. It’s a good job you’re away from the whole mess. Now –” he reached for his beat-up Gibson “– if you’re up to it, let’s run through a few song ideas I had last night. Max thinks we should do another duet. What d’you think?”

Christa leaned forward. “I think you’re the sweetest, best friend I ever had,” she said softly as she laid her hand atop his.

He snorted. “Tell that to Gemma.”

“She’s very lucky to have someone like you in her life. She’ll realize it eventually, and come back to you.”

He regarded her doubtfully. “You think?”

“I know.” She brushed her lips against his cheek. “Thanks, Dom, for…everything. You’re a good friend.”

“Yeah, right, well,” he replied, embarrassed, “you’re welcome. We’re mates, after all.” He strummed a couple of augmented chords. “Now, then, let’s get to work. Here’s what I came up with for the chorus…”