How to Date a Millionaire (15 page)

Collect the other Living Blonde books …

Excerpt from
Diamonds are a Teen’s Best Friend

‘Is this the boat to Europe, France?’

Honestly, I tried to stop myself asking the question, I truly did. In front of me, the porter guy looks at me as if I’m a fourteen-(almost fifteen-!) year-old idiot. Beside me, dear old Dad looks at me as if I’m delusional (that’s because a lot of the time he actually thinks I am – he’s even had me tested to make sure I’m not). And he’s about to open his mouth to start in on me (again … sigh) when, behind me, I hear it – someone laughs. Right on cue.

I swing around quickly, my head zipping from side to side, trying to see who it is, but it’s practically impossible in this traffic jam of a crowd, especially when you’re as short as I am and your dad won’t let you wear a kitten heel, let alone rhinestones in the daytime. I bet Marilyn Monroe’s mother never said a thing about Marilyn wearing rhinestones in the daytime. Then again, Marilyn Monroe’s mother let her get married at sixteen and spent a great deal of time in a mental institution, so that’s probably not saying very much. I’m just about to give up on the searching thing when the crowd parts and someone dressed entirely in red,
going out/in/out (in all the right places) and hips swaying, passes me by with a wink and a lift of one perfectly arched eyebrow.

‘Honey,’ she says, in the kind of voice that makes everyone turn and look at her. ‘France is
in
Europe.’

Oh. My. God.

It’s one of those moments when you just know you’ll think up a zillion and two perfect things to say later, but instead you stand there looking like you’ve recently had a lobotomy. Especially when I realise that the someone is actually a Someone and that the woman now heading up the escalator to the biggest ship I’ve ever seen in my life is, in fact, Holly Isles.

Yes,
the
Holly Isles.

Actress. Goddess. Star of stage, screen and various tabloid magazines that you skim as fast as you can at the supermarket checkout because your dad will never let you buy them and everyone else is allowed to rot their brain so why can’t I, Holly Isles.

Someone whistles. And, this time, I don’t need to look around. This time, I know for sure it’s not for me. (Laughing, sure. Whistling? I am sincerely doubting
it …) And because I don’t turn around, I don’t move for the guy. The one who smacks into my shoulder (ow!) and says, ‘Excuse me. I need to get to my
aunt
.’

I follow his gaze directly up the escalator to Holly. His aunt? Holly is his aunt? Well, la de da. I go to give him my best ‘Get your filthy mitts off me, don’t mess with the outfit and don’t go
anywhere
near the hair, buster’ look when my mouth drops even further. Hello, sailor! Cute boy ahoy! He’s not kidding around. This guy is definitely related to Holly in a big way.

‘Ah …’ my dad exhales, the lecture he’d been working on giving me obviously forgotten. Funny, but he’s got the same kind of lobotomy look as me. And he’s staring straight at Holly.

Excerpt from
The Seven Month Itch

‘Hey, Vera!’ I scramble off my seat at the breakfast bar as soon as I hear the elevator ping.

Even before the doors slide fully open, the heavily accented voice starts in on me. ‘Hay, it is what the horses eat,
young lady
.’

Halfway across the parquetry floor, I stop in my tracks. Young lady? That’s a new one. Vera has obviously been spending
way
too much time hanging around my dad. I shrug, then keep heading in the direction of the very solid form that’s now thumping towards me across the impressively large hallway. ‘Can I give you a hand?’ I go over to take some of the grocery bags Vera’s clutching under each arm.

‘No, no, no,’ she clucks in her now-familiar ‘Me, portly Russian housekeeper; you, child to be overfed’ way, and lurches past me into the kitchen. She dumps the bags unceremoniously on the counter with a huff. ‘Now,’ she says, turning back around. ‘What you want for the breakfast?’

Down to Vera business.

I shrug again. ‘I’ve already got some juice, and cereal’s
fine. I was just about to get myself a bowl.’ I start back towards the kitchen.

Within seconds, Vera has cut me off at the pass.

‘No, no, no,’ the clucking starts up once more. ‘You too skinny, Va-nessa. So skinny. You need to eat. No cereal. Is all sugar. You need the protein. Too skinny. So skinny!’

I look down at my summer pyjama-clad stomach, to see if I’ve magically lost weight overnight. Nope. And I don’t think that bulge of stomach there, blocking out a gorgeous view of my feet, is bloating brought on by a severe case of malnutrition.

‘See?’ she says, and before I can either a) look up, orb) stop her, Vera’s pudgy hand has darted out and grabbed my hip-bone. ‘Nothing!’ She gives my hip, and its ample padding, a good squeeze. ‘Need to eat! Too skinny. So skinny! Boys like the girl with something to hold on to.’

I shrug for a third time. Can’t argue with that, I guess. ‘How about waffles?’ I suggest. Never mind the boys, you have to keep your housekeeper happy, right? As Holly’s always telling me, it’s hard to get good help in Manhattan, especially downtown. Waffles are the least I can do. And if
waffles keep the boys interested, well, so be it. We’ll call it a welcome side effect.

‘Waffles! Yes! Good!’ Vera claps her hands together, now a very happy little housekeeper.

‘I can help …’ I take half a step closer into Vera’s kitchen. (When she’s here, you have to be very careful about entering. I swear I once heard her start growling when I went to get myself a glass of water.)

‘No, no, no. You sit. Drink the juice.’ And there’s the look. The Vera look. The ‘Back away from my kitchen’ look.

‘Okay,’ I squeak, and turn around to take my seat at the breakfast bar. ‘I’ll just, um, sit here and drink my juice.’ Who knew that fixing yourself breakfast in your own home could be so dangerous?

‘Yes. Good. Drink juice.’ Then, before I can even take a sip of my juice, the groceries have been put away and scary Vera has turned into happy waffle-making Vera.