The Greek Who Stole Christmas Read Online Free Page A

was wearing a hearing aid, but he didn’t need it because no one was talking to him. She was gazing out of the window. It was made from special glass so that no one could look in. Her manager, Jake Hammill, had the next seat to himself. Tim and I were closest to the front – and furthest from the bar. The three of them were drinking champagne but all we’d been offered was a glass of iced water. Well, we were staff. Official security and its younger brother.
    As usual Minerva was in a bad mood, but I had to admit that from where I was sitting she looked fabulous. She was wearing a bright red number with white fur trimmings. Think Father Christmas only thirty years younger and after major cosmetic surgery. Her lips were bright red too, shaped like a perfect kiss. It would have been hard to believe that this was the woman who hated Christmas. She’d done herself up like the sort of present every man in London would want to open. I glanced at Tim and saw that he was drooling. I just hoped it wouldn’t stain the carpet.
    “Now, remember!” Harold Chase said to his wife. She turned round slowly and looked at him without a lot of interest. “You pose for the cameras. You make a little speech. You turn on the lights. And then we get the hell out of there.”
    “What’s the big worry?” Minerva drawled.
    “The big worry?” Harold’s eyes bulged. For a nasty minute I thought they were going to fall out of his face. “There could be a killer out there, baby. You’re going to be out in the open, exposed. Anyone could take a shot at you.” He leant forward and turned to Tim. “You’d better keep your eyes open, Mr Diamond,” he said.
    “You don’t have to worry, Mr Cheese,” Tim assured him. “I’ve had my eyes on your wife all evening.”
    “Well, you’d just better make sure nothing goes wrong.”
    “What could possibly go wrong with me around?” Tim exclaimed. He threw his hands back in a gesture of surprise, emptying his glass of iced water over the driver.
    The car drew to a halt. It was just coming up to six o’clock on a cold, dry Tuesday evening, but the shops were still open and there were Christmas shoppers everywhere. We got out and suddenly the night seemed to explode in a thousand flashes. They came so thick and fast that I found myself blinded. It was as if I had entered an electrical storm that signalled the end of the world.
    Of course, it was nothing so dramatic. Minerva was being photographed by a huge pack of press photographers, all of them holding up great, chunky cameras with lenses that were definitely pleased to see her. For a few seconds Minerva seemed to be frozen, half in the car and half out of it. Then she came to her senses and began to smile and wave; the silent, bad-tempered woman who had been sitting opposite me was instantly replaced by the perfect star that she was as the lights flashed all around her. And at that moment I got an idea of what it must be like to be a celebrity – loved not because of what you are but because of what the cameras want you to be.
    At the same time, I was puzzled. Minerva had received two death threats. Even if she had decided not to take them seriously, her husband and manager had been worried enough to hire Tim and me. And yet here she was completely surrounded by photographers. It occurred to me that any one of them could have a gun. There were a few police around, but right now killing Minerva would be the easiest thing in the world. I said nothing. I could only stand there as she turned and smiled and smiled and turned while the photographers shouted at her from every side.
    “Over here, Minerva!”
    “Give us a smile, Minerva!”
    “This way, Minerva!”
    Tim nudged me. He was standing with his back to the car, blinking in the flashlights, but I could see that he was suddenly alert. I followed his eyes and saw a rather shabby-looking man in a suit hurrying towards us and suddenly I knew what was going to happen.
    “Leave this to