Run to You by Clare Cole Page A

it."
    He gently kissed my forehead. "Not as much as I do."
    "So, do you think you'll win?"
    "Not a chance in hell," Rick laughed, heading back into the bathroom. "It's not important, anyway."
    "Of course it is!" I replied, trying on the diamond earrings sent over by my stylist. "It's your industry giving you recognition. That has to be worth something."
    Rick headed back into the lounge area of our suite. "Not particularly. They don't buy my albums. It's just the industry slapping itself on the back. Besides, how relevant are the Grammys anyway? They completely ignore rap and hip-hop music, for example. Totally marginalise it."
    "Wait a minute… since when did you like hip-hop?"
    "I don't. But millions of people do so they shouldn't ignore it. Anyway, I'm just getting on my high horse. Let's just have a good time and screw the politics."
    As $10,000 worth of jewellery hung from my ears, I smiled at my reflection. "If you hate the Grammys so much, why bother turning up?"
    Rick moved in behind me and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close to him. "Because, pretty lady," he said, kissing at my neck and making me giggle, " twenty-five million people will be watching on CBS tonight. That's a lot of free advertising."
    I turned around and kissed him on the lips, running my hands over the hard muscles beneath his white shirt. "You shameless media whore, you."
    "Damn right," he smiled. "Show me the money, baby."
    Our moment was ended abruptly by a sharp knock at the door. "It's Anita. Can I come in?"
    I opened it to see my stylist looking flustered. "You okay?” I asked. “You look shattered.”
    "Huh?"
    "Sorry, it's a British thing. It means you look tired, stressed out."
    She rushed over to the Marchesa dress and hurriedly put it into a hanging bag. "Amy, you wouldn't believe the morning I'm having. I've still got fo ur other clients to sort out and they haven't received any of their dresses yes. I could kill some of these designers. They love to get their names mentioned on the red carpet, but do they get their stuff to me when they're supposed to? Do they hell."
    "Sorry," I smiled nervously. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble – it just doesn't fit properly, that's all…"
    She rushed over and took my face in her hands. "Don't be silly! You're my dream client. It's everybody else who's a nightmare, honest. Besides, you're my number one priority today. Rick's receiving an award, after all. Everybody is going to be photographing you."
    "Nominated," Rick's disembodied voice shouted. "Not receiving, nominated."
    Anita leaned in close. "He's so going to win it," she whispered. I held up a pair of crossed fingers. "Right, I'm out of here. I just need to take this downstairs and the seamstress from Marchesa can adjust it. She's busy working on Shakira's dress at the minute – that's if you can call it a dress. I've worn underwear that covers me up more."
    "Well, she's got the body for it," I smiled.
    "I know," Anita replied, rolling her eyes skyward. "Bitch. Anyway, you can talk." She waved an accusing finger at my cleavage, just visible between the folds of my dressing gown. "The gossip pages aren't going to know what's hit them later on."
    I screwed my face up. " Do you think my boobs might be a bit much? I mean, the dress is gorgeous but it really shows them off. I don't want to look slutty."
    She placed a hand on my shoulder. "Firstly, Amy, you are dating the world's hottest rock star right now…"
    "Got that right!" Rick shouted.
    "… so you can't go out there looking as if you're going to a charity lunch with some CEO. Secondly, it's a Marchesa dress. Marchesa doesn't do slutty. And third - if you've got it, baby, you damn well flaunt it. Despite what you may think, every dude in the place tonight will be jealous as hell of a certain Rick Borrell."
    I gave her a hug. "Thanks. It's just a bit daunting, that's all. I've never done anything like this before."
    "Don't worry," she replied, heading out the door. "You're