I’ve written quite a few villains in my time who are sexy. Who make me kinda think, damn, I’d love to write a book about this guy’s redemption. There’s one villain however, who will never see redemption. That man is Australian paparazzo, Carl Holston.
Those that have read Love’s Rhythm and Twister have already had an introduction to the notorious celebrity photographer. He tracked Nick down in Murriundah and he stalked Lachlan and Cameron thoughout the Northern Beaches in Sydney.
Holston is tenacious, scrupleless and reprehsible. When he has a target in his sights, he will stop at nothing to get the money-making shot. Holston is soon to taint the world again in Muscle for Hire (coming January 29) and unfortunately, he’s also causing major problems for my characters in my current WIP. Because that’s what Holston thrives on the most; causing problems for his targets.
World, allow me to formally introduce Carl Holston: scumbag papparazzo…
From Love’s Rhythm
She shot Nick a look over her shoulder. He stood a few steps behind her, half-dressed, his upper body naked and still slicked in a fine sheen of sweat, his chest rising and falling with each steadying breath he pulled, his lean muscles sculpted and defined with the exertion of their fucking. His fly was zipped, the top of the treble cleft tattooed on his lower abdomen peaking from above the low-slung waistline of his jeans. His thick black hair hung around his face, awry from her hands, brushing eyes that studied her with an unreadable intensity.
He looked like a sexual god.
He looked like a rock star.
Closing her eyes, she raked her fingers through her hair, took a deep breath and then turned back to the door and pulled it open.
White light exploded in her eyes. Soundless. Blinding. White light followed by Nick snarling, “You fucking prick, Holston.”
White light speared into her eyes again. A flash so bright she gasped.
“Having a good time, Blackthorne?” the man in front of her asked, although it wasn’t so much a question but a chuckling sneer. And she couldn’t see him. All she could see was painful yellow glare dancing on her retina, glaring yellow light making it impossible to see, just like the kind left over from a powerful camera flash.
She blinked. She could see a man on her front step, and yet she couldn’t. He was hiding behind the dancing yellow burn from his camera’s flash.
“You guys need to get a life,” she heard Nick growl. And then he was pushing past her. White light exploded in front of her again as the man’s voice called out, telling her to smile, to give Nick a kiss, asking her how long they’d been together. White, rapid-fire flash bombs accompanied by the distinct click of a camera attacked her, capturing her stupor seconds before the sound of her door slamming shut smacked at her ears.
Oh God, no.
The dismayed thought had barely finished forming in Cameron’s head when Lachlan leapt to his feet.
He turned and ran for the tree line, fists bunched, body leaning into a sprint. A shadow bolted from behind the closest tree, a shadow the size of a man.
“Finally fucking a model, ‘eh McDermott?” the man-shaped shadow shouted. The flash fired again, farther away this time, but still Cameron flinched. “Just like your old man now, right?”
Cameron’s mouth turned dry. She scrambled to her feet, snatching her top from where it lay in a crumpled mound of silver silk as she did so. The moon picked that moment to escape the blanket of the clouds, bathing Lachlan and the fleeing photographer in pale light.
The paparazzo was stumbling over the grassy area between soccer field and car park, throwing the pursing Lachlan backward glances even as he continued to take photos. The click of the camera’s shutter sounded like a scream in the night, although Cameron doubted any shots the paparazzo fired would garner anything by blurred smudges of movement. But that wasn’t the point.
They’d been photographed. Making love on a public soccer field. Her and Lachlan. The country’s most powerful businessman and the ex-model who’d dropped out of existence.
Her stomach rolled, sick tension knotting inside her. Oh God, the media was going to have a wet dream over this.
Unless the photographer hadn’t captured anything. Was that possible?
“Yeah, right,” she snarled, shucking her shirt over her head and down her torso to cover her breasts, breasts so recently worshipped by Lachlan’s lips and tongue and teeth.
Had the paparazzo captured that? How long had the guy been there for before the moon went behind the clouds and his autoflash fired?
Cameron’s stomach rolled again. How could she have been so foolish? She knew Lachlan was a target for the press. She knew that.
And still she’d let him make love to her. Almost make love to her. And it wasn’t Lachlan that had stripped her shirt from her body. It had been her. It wasn’t Lachlan that had begged for more. It had been her. Oh God, if the photographer’s flash hadn’t fired what else would he have photographed? And worse still, who would he sell the images to first? How long before they found their way onto the net? How much longer after that before they graced the front pages of newspapers around the world?
The crunch of heavy feet on grass made her start. She blinked, hugging herself as Lachlan stormed back toward her. Even in the darkness she could see the rage in his face. The icy contempt and disgusted fury.
“Did you…” She bit back the question before it could finish forming. It was a stupid question. The paparazzi knew how to get away. How to escape a furious target was an inherent talent. It went hand in hand with how to be a low-life scum feeding on another’s right to privacy.
Lachlan’s nostrils flared. He stopped a few feet away from her, jaw bunched. He didn’t look at her. Icy rage radiated from him, a menacing storm that made Cameron’s already knotted stomach twist.
“What the hell was I thinking?” The words fell from his lips in a flat grunt. His hands didn’t so much as drag through his hair, but gouge through it.
Cameron licked her lips. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight. “Do you know who it was?”
Unlike her previous question, this one wasn’t stupid. The Sydney paparazzi were a small band of carrion feeders. Those who were exposed to their particular talents grew to recognize them.
“A prick called Holston.”
Cameron bit back a groan. Carl Holston, Sydney’s most notorious paparazzo. The guy had been around even in Kole’s days, climbing trees into people’s backyards, following them into doctors’ surgeries, hanging outside their children’s school all in the hope of catching that one photo he could sell for thousands. There were even rumours he’d attempted to muscle his way into the private funeral of Nick Blackthorne’s parents in the hopes of scoring a shot of the grieving singer.
From Muscle for Hire
He tore his mouth from her lips, sucking in a steady breath as he stared down into her eyes. “I can fuck you here and now, Rowan. On my bike. Where anyone can stumble upon us. I don’t care. I’m beyond caring. But it’s your call. I don’t want you to—”
A sudden white flash bleached Rowan’s face, followed by another, and another.
Aslin spun around, his glare falling on a familiar man standing but a few feet away, a large SLR camera held up to his face.
Aslin’s gut clenched, cold fury storming through him.
“Now that’s what I call an action shot, Rhodes,” the notorious Australian paparazzo called out, removing the memory card from the camera with swift hands. “You been taking lessons from that boss of yours?” He shoved the card into his back pocket with a smirk. “How is Nick by the way? Fucking around on his wife yet? I was hoping you’d lead me to him but instead I found—”
Rowan stiffened in Aslin’s arms. For a second. Only one. And then she was off his bike and sprinting toward Holston, a feline grace claiming her body.
And now here’s is an exclusive, never-seen-before (totally unedited) snippet from Guarded Hearts, the follow up to Muscle for Hire. (Guarded Hearts is only a working title. Still waiting to see what my editor thinks of it *grin*) It’s only the first mention of Holston, but trust me, what he does to American sit-com star Chris Huntley while Chris is in Australia is, well…just let me say, you’re going to want to strangle him.
“Excellent.” Bethany’s answering smile was stunning. If Liev wasn’t already so unsettled by his sexual attraction to the American actor sitting opposite him, he’d be floored by the young woman standing beside him. Come to think it, his horny bloody brain had already started to create a debauched fantasy involving all three of them. “I shall arrange a taxi to meet you at Circular Key to drive you home. Is that okay?”
“Perfect.” It would be easier if more expensive to call a taxi to collect him from the harbour-side home, but Liev didn’t want too many people knowing the location. And with Chris being in town, the paparazzi were already out in force. Images of Chris arriving at the airport were already online. Liev had scanned the celebrity gossip sites during the trip across the harbour, noting more than one image of the actor in the airport terminal attributed to the infamous Australian paparazzo, Carl Holston. Rhodes had pre-warned him Holston would be a nuisance.
Paparazzi weren’t something Liev had to deal with guarding politicians. It was only the odd job he had taken protecting Nick Blackthorne with Aslin that exposed him to their particular kind of scum. And in Australia, Holston was the king shit of them—
So there you have it. Carl Holston. I fear, given that Nick Blackthorne is not finished with my muse, I shall be not be free of Holston any time soon. *sigh*