The Price of Fame. Rowena Cory Daniels

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      Without waiting, Monty backed into the room with a tray of coffee and toast, startling me so that I sat up and almost knocked the laptop off the bed.

      Shit, I'd slept with my computer. How lame was that?

      Monty turned around, took in my state and smiled. 'You sleep in designer suits? Kinky!'

      I rubbed bleary eyes aware that my mascara was smudged and, from the way my face felt, I had a pillow crease down one cheek. He stood there bare chest, washboard belly, a thin line of dark hair disappearing into in a pair of red satin boxer shorts, looking good enough to eat. Why was I being punished?

      'It's nearly half past eight,' he said. 'Time to get up.'

      'Coffee sure smells good.'

      'Yeah and you look like shit. Go take a shower.'

      'Gee, thanks. You remind me of Nan.'

      He grinned. 'Your nan and I have a lot in common. She told me all about you.

      Given a pot of tea and a willing ear, I had no trouble imagining Monty charming Nan into revealing all sorts of embarrassing details about my childhood. A shower and a fresh face seemed like a good idea right now.

      'Okay.' I climbed off the bed and noticed Monty's gaze oscillating between my thighs and the laptop. 'But don't touch anything until I get back.'

      'Control freak.'

      'You bet!'

      I stood under the shower and let the hot water revive me. I'd never shared a house with Monty. When we met, he'd been living with a bunch of guys and I'd been living with Nan after leaving Nathan. The only time we'd 'slept together' was when we'd dropped from exhaustion after working all night. Monty had started out being careful around me and by the end of the course he was trying to push my buttons. I'd been a sort of cynical mother-confessor to our group, years older than most of them, wiser and bruised, I didn't really fit in.

      I didn't major in screenwriting because it was cool; I wanted to make a difference. But, after graduating, nothing had panned out and I'd been directionless until the tap incident made me confront my own mortality.

      The near miss had convinced Nan and I to sell up the family home. Built by my great-grandfather, it was a classic old Queenslander, set on stilts, with high-ceilings and verandas on three sides. Nan's pension didn't go far, so she hadn't been able to maintain it, but land close to the city with a view of the river was worth a fortune. The old houses were being bought up by trendy young couples who renovated them to within an inch of their lives. Neither of us had the money to renovate, so we sold.

      It was a wrench but it was the right move for both of us. While going through my stuff I'd found the clippings on the band that I'd saved over the years and it had all come back to me. It was like waking up. I just knew what I had to do.

      I began my research going right back to before Genevieve's murder, what little there was. Her defiant, vulnerable face had haunted my childhood. For the last six months I'd lived, eaten and breathed the band. Nan had insisted I use my share of the house sale to finance the project. I didn't have the heart to tell her it was woefully inadequate. But it was enough to fund the pilot doco. That's where Monty's coming in was a stroke of luck.

      I just hadn't expected him to bring me breakfast in bed. My stomach rumbled.

      The phone rang.

      I stuck my head out of the shower. 'Who is it?'

      Monty opened the door to the bathroom. Making a great show of not looking at me, he yelled, 'Must be a good friend of yours. It's some power-hungry bitch who says she can squeeze you in for a nine o'clock appointment with Jake Tucker.'

      A surge of adrenalin woke me. 'Tell her I'll be there.'

      'Tell her yourself.' He closed the door.

      With less than half an hour to get ready, I turned off the shower.

      When I marched into my bedroom, towel tucked around me, I found Monty rereading Walenski's manuscript. He took his time to look me up and down. 'I always knew your legs went right up to your bum.'

      'It'd look weird if they didn't,' I said, but I had to acknowledge a kick of delight.

      He grinned. 'I should have let you answer your own phone. Then I could have enjoyed the show.'

      'Out.' I flung one arm towards the door.

      'Do it again. The towel might fall off.'

      I glared at him, but it was hard to be intimidating in a fluffy towel.

      Monty mock leered at me and ambled to the doorway.

      I marched behind him ready to shut the door. 'And if you want to come with me, cut the crap.'

      A shove would have pushed him out into the hall, but I didn't trust myself to touch that expanse of inviting dark skin.

      'Does this mean we won't be calling on Walenski until later?' he asked.

      Keep your mind on the job, girl. I considered getting Walenski's number from Arthur and phoning him, but humble pie is best eaten in person. 'Yes. Now leave and let me get dressed.'

      'I could stay and help you choose what to wear.'

      'Go.'

      He backed out as I shut the door. Living with Monty was doing wonderful things for my libido, but it was no good for my peace of mind and I'd worked hard to rebuild myself, these last five years.

      Now, what to wear. I wanted to look good, but sharp. If only I hadn't slept in the vintage suit.

      We were 15 minutes late for the appointment which was not bad, considering the traffic. It didn't matter. Jake Tucker didn't show for another 40 minutes.

      Tucker's publicist offered us tea and coffee. Since we'd had no breakfast, I took her up on it. We were finishing off a round of hotel sandwiches when she returned to let the great man in.

      He wore black T-shirt and jeans, and a two-day designer stubble. Jake Tucker took his status as pop-star icon seriously. He was in his early 40s, a little older than Pete O'Toole had been when Genevieve was murdered and O'Toole had considered himself old. Jake Tucker obviously didn't. But too much hard living had aged Tuck. He looked like he had ten years on Arthur. He had one of those thin, troubled faces that you associate with artistic people or self-obsessed addicts.

      'Drink?' he asked, as he lounged in the seat opposite.

      I waved at the remains on the coffee table. His publicist hurried over with something which looked suspiciously like vodka and orange for him.

      'Cheers.' He lifted the drink and sent me a charming smile which said he always had time for a pretty woman. I gritted my teeth. Men tend to react that way when they first meet me. It doesn't last.

      'So why am I seeing you, Anna?' he asked.

      'Antonia.' Great. He hadn't bothered to listen to his publicist. 'I'm researching the early years of the Tough Romantics for a documentary-'

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