Chapter 3
OLIVER
“Welcome back, Mr. Deubel.” The doorman bids us welcome with a wide smile as he pulls on the door.
“George.” I incline my head, pressing my hand to the small of Evelyn’s back as I steer her into a darkened interior. She’d removed her veil in the car, leaving her neck and the graceful slope of her sun-kissed shoulders bare. As if her silky-looking skin wasn’t temptation enough, she has a tiny beauty spot partly obscured by the lace of her dress. It makes me wonder what other treasures her dress is hiding.
Like that thousand dollars’ worth of underwear.
Was her reveal accidental or a blatant come-on? I force my head from her underwear. I’m not going there, figuratively or ...
“Looks fancy,” she whispers over her shoulder.
Ignoring darker impulses, I take the opportunity and press my lips next to her ear. “At least we won’t have a problem with the dress code.”
She looks so delicate. So small. She’d look so delightful riding my cock.
Or not.
“There’s a dress code?” Her lashes flutter as though disconcerted by the news rather than the shiver that ripples through her at my tone.
“Yes.” My answer makes the tiny, escaped curl at her temple dance. I curl my hand into a fist to stop myself from touching it. It’s an automatic reaction, I tell myself. A small pleasure. Damsels in distress are not my thing, especially ones foolish enough to be taken in by Atherton. “No denim, no canvas, no shorts or T-shirts, nothing outlandish.”
“Because wearing a wedding gown for no reason isn’t at all over the top?” The corner of her mouth tilts before she looks away again.
“It’s better to be overdressed than under. In most situations.” The latter I add in an undertone, surprised to find myself imagining the fiancée of Mitchell Atherton naked.
Former fiancée, my mind unhelpfully supplies.
How the hell did he capture such loveliness? Curves in all the right places, luxuriant strawberry blonde hair, and soulful brown eyes that, in a blink, can burn like gold-flecked flames. I push the images away. I’m not interested in my nemesis’s sloppy seconds.
We pass the club steward who, like the doorman, is wearing a curiously wide grin. How strange. While always pleasant, the staff at my club aren’t given to an excess of happiness. This isn’t Disneyland.
“Most situations?” my companion teases.
“It wouldn’t do to visit the beach in a three-piece suit.”
“I think you could probably get away with it.” She slides me an appreciative look. “I’m almost offended by how good you look given I’m the one in the fancy dress.”
A surprised bark of laughter bursts from my chest. That was a little more obvious. What a pity she’s not for me.
“Just don’t let the staff know you’re not wearing shoes, or we’ll be shown the door.”
“Something tells me they wouldn’t dare.” True, but I don’t say so. “What is this place?” she whispers as I steer her into the lounge, where dust motes dance in the sunlight. For the first time, I notice how the smell of whisky and old books overlays the scent of beeswax polish. At least the place isn’t busy at this hour.
“It’s my club.” I indicate seats in the bay window overlooking leafy Saint James’s Street.
“You mean, like a gentleman’s club?”
“They prefer private members’ establishment .”
She glances around, taking in the Adam’s era fireplace and the dark paneled walls hung with portraits of long-dead members and frowns at a bronze bust.
“That’s a Samuel Joseph, I believe.”
“It looks like something from Harry Potter,” she says, sitting in one of the pair of oxblood leather chairs I indicate. “Or maybe a museum.”
“It is often full of old relics.”
“More original than poles.”
I pause. “Poles?”
“The kind with half-naked women swinging around them.”
“Ah.”
“Ah.” Her mouth turns up at the corners, her lips pink and lush in between. “Do you have membership to one of those clubs too?”
“I might’ve walked past a place like that once or twice.”
“Only past? Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
“Who’d be interested?”
“Me.” She lifts her palm upward, a shrug of sorts. “Because then I wouldn’t be the only one embarrassing myself today.”
“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Debatable.” Her nose wrinkles. She has the most animated face. Odd that it seems to add to her beauty, not detract from it.
“If there’s anyone who ought to feel shame, it isn’t you.”
“When my future holds so many mornings of waking up, seeing your face, and reliving the whole undignified moment again?”
“It’s going to be that kind of friendship?”
“I mean, who just climbs into a stranger’s car?” she blusters on, her cheeks flushing pink. “You didn’t even have candy or kittens!”
“Just enticing lashes.”
“Not helping,” she groans, pressing her hand to her forehead.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll remember the experience differently. You’re the most interesting thing that’s fallen into my lap this year.”
“Don’t be nice to me, Oliver. I’m still running on rage and adrenaline. I can’t believe I threw my beautiful shoes into a bush!”
“I’m a firm believer in forgiving those who’ve wronged us.” Her eyes flash gold as they cut to me. “But not until we’ve evened the score.”
“For a minute, I thought I wasn’t going to like you.”
“You already do like me, Evelyn.”
“What I don’t like is being called Evelyn .” Lowering her tone, she draws out the sound of her name.
“That is not how I sound.” I smile, unable to help myself.
“Isn’t it?”
“Not, Evelyn . It is not,” I say, dropping my tone a little more.
“Everyone calls me Evie.” She adorably scrunches her nose. “Only my mother calls me Evelyn.”
“When you’re in trouble?”
“Oh, I’m always in trouble with Muffy.” As she answers, she rolls her eyes.
“Muffy?” I turn to a harrumph and the sound of crushed paper, Viscount Radler slicing me an unhappy glance over his now-crumpled copy of the Times . As I turn back, I find Evelyn leaning closer, as though she has a secret to share. I resist the impulse to meet her halfway.
“Does that man have muttonchops?” she whispers, delighted.
“Possibly.” Whereas this man has the urge to push his hands into her hair and pluck out the pins to watch it curl around her bare shoulders. It’s good that she sits back. “He’s here so often, he’s almost part of the furniture.”
“I bet you’re wondering why she didn’t help me today. My mother, I mean.”
I make a noncommittal sound, which is better than admitting the truth. I don’t care.
“London is a long way from Connecticut, but so is across the street when you’re marrying the wrong man.” With the reluctant reveal, she turns her attention to the window, offering me her profile. Her upturned nose and the way the light hits her evoke the look of another era.
“A mother’s intuition,” I venture. A pity she hadn’t shared it, because Mitchell Atherton is a grade A prick.
“Her objection wasn’t personal. They’d never met. Just as well, I guess,” she adds with a sly grin. “Hadley women never do anything as lowbrow as cause a scene.”
“Apparently, most Hadley women don’t know what they’re missing.”
“Fond of making an ass of yourself, are you?” Both skepticism and a smile leak into her words.
“Fond, no. But it has happened.” And I have her bastard of an ex to thank for that.
“It’s no surprise I’m living on this side of the pond. My parents are so ... emotionally constipated. Meanwhile, I seem to be suffering from the opposite of that affliction.” She presses her hands to her face as her shoulders begin to shake.
“Eve?” Her name springs from my lips. Eve , not Evelyn and certainly not Evie . I like it. It feels appropriate.
“Oh, man.” As she sits up, I realize she’s not crying but laughing. “And I thought I was done embarrassing myself today.”
“Where is George?” I glance in the direction of the door.
“George was the doorman, right?”
“Yes, but I meant George the waiter. He’s not usually so slow.”
“Wait.” She cants her head to one side. “The waiter and the doorman are both called George?”
“Everyone who works here is referred to as George. They answer to the name for convenience.”
“Theirs or yours?”
“I imagine that could run both ways. It’s a tradition. Nothing else.”
“What about the women? Are they called George too?” she asks, unimpressed.
“Georgina.” I stick to a one-word answer. Better I don’t mention that women, both as guests and as employees, are a relatively new concept here.
“Who would’ve thought there was somewhere more elitist than the country club,” she mutters flatly.
“I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.” When I feel like it. “The men of my family have been members of this place for generations, and while it wouldn’t be at the top of my list of places to take a guest, I thought it might be the place that would provoke the least attention.” My gaze dips briefly to her gown, and she doesn’t miss my meaning, that rush of heat burning up her pale throat again.
“You’re right, that was rude. I’m not usually so—”
“Fractious,” I offer at the same time as she adds, “Crotchety.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Deubel.” George the waiter appears, as silent as a wraith. A widely smiling wraith.
“Ah, George. Would you mind answering a question for me?”
“Not at all, but I think I can preempt it by saying steak-and-kidney pudding—and honestly, I wouldn’t. There’s also wild duck with an orange jus , which is”—he presses his gathered fingers to his lips.
“Chef’s kiss,” Eve supplies.
“Exactly!” He turns a smile her way.
“Thank you, George, but my question wasn’t about the menu. I was wondering if you mind being referred to as George while you’re at work.” A pointless question. Of course he’ll say it’s not an issue. But if it makes Eve feel better ...
“It’s better than being called Cyril.”
“Was that the other choice?” Eve asks.
“No, that’s my actual name. Unfortunately.”
“Oh, well, you don’t look like a Cyril,” she soothes.
“That’s because I’ve got all my own teeth.” The thirtysomething gives a resigned shrug. “I was named after my grandfather.” He takes a deep breath before beginning again. “On behalf of the establishment, may I offer you both my congratulations?” He beams Evelyn’s way, but she’s already shaking her head.
“Oh, but we’re—”
“Keeping it to ourselves for the time being,” I interject. “And thank you, George. That’s very kind of you. We can count on your discretion, of course.”
“Of course,” he agrees, puffing his chest out. “You’ll want champagne?”
Eve’s eyes dart my way. “That is ...”
“An excellent suggestion.”
“I have just the thing,” he announces before bustling off again.
“The smiles begin to make sense,” I murmur, plucking an imaginary piece of lint from my trouser leg. A woman in a wedding dress? Of course that must mean I’ve gotten hitched! As if I’d bring my bride for a pint and a cheese-and-pickle sandwich to celebrate. As if I’d ever shown interest in tying myself to one woman.
When I glance up, I find Eve looking at me, doing her inquisitive-terrier impersonation again. “Why did you tell him we’re married?”
“Did I? I thought I just went along with his assumption.”
“Yeah, but why?” she asks, lowering her voice to a whisper.
“I didn’t want to cause you any more discomfort.” It’s a simple explanation but one I find, on reflection, is true. I acted on instinct rather than with any kind of ulterior motive. I did it because I find I want to make her day a little better. Or at least, not any worse. How uncharacteristic of me. I suppose everyone has an off day now and again.
“Well, thank you.” She presses back into the seat, and I watch as her teeth begin to worry at her lip. “What happens next time you’re here and they ask how your wife is?”
I glance the viscount’s way. “I’ll just pull that face. He’s been married for fifty years and has spent forty-nine of them in here hiding from his wife. I can get away with the ruse for at least that long.”
She gives a tiny shake of her head.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I was just thinking how, less than an hour ago, you were going to ditch me. Now look at me, your sham bride.”
“I told you—you’re the most interesting thing that’s fallen into my lap this year.”
“As opposed to the kind of lap action available in those other gentleman’s clubs?”
Desire tightens my skin. Eve in my lap would be something. She’d be hypnotic, my hands on her hips, encouraging her gentle rhythm. Mouths sliding, skin slipping against skin. The insight is blissful and short as I blink. Atherton’s ex should not interest me. “That’s not my style.”
She doesn’t answer for a beat, though she studies me. Which suits me fine. It allows me to reciprocate.
“Why are you being so nice?” she asks.
“Curiosity probably.” There is bound to be some use in it for me.
“Are you hoping to get back at Mitchell by fucking me?”
“Are you?” I volley back, ignoring the flare of heat in my gut.
“What did he do to you?”
“Let’s just say as well as understanding why you’d leave him at the altar, I’m also coming to understand why he’d chase you.”
“Flattery?”
“Honesty.” Even I hear the note of alarm in my answer.
“Honesty is entry-level human behavior, Oliver.”
“In the quest for the truth, then. Allowing George to misunderstand wasn’t a purely noble gesture. I find there’s still a thousand dollars’ worth of reasons lurking at the back of my mind.”
She gives a delightfully dirty laugh. “Lurking, huh? Well, try not to dwell too long.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Might it help to know I recently considered neutering my ex-fiancé?”
I press my elbow to the arm of the chair and my chin to my fist. “You know, I think I might be perverse.”
This time, it’s Eve’s hearty laughter that disturbs the viscount.
“You know you can take that.” Her eyes sparkle over the top of her old-fashioned champagne saucer as I ignore the incessant buzzing of my phone.
“I don’t want to.”
“That’s clear.” She sets the glass down. “It’s been ringing on and off since we got here.”
“You’re right. I should just turn it off completely.” I slip my hand into my jacket pocket, pulling out my phone.
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t want to completely hijack your day.” Despite three glasses of champagne, she looks genuinely distressed at the prospect.
“Hijack away,” I say, powering down my phone, though not before I see a text from my business partner, Fin.
Did you hear about Mitchell Atherton? The fucker got dumped at the altar earlier today.
It’s not even the most remarkable thing about the situation, because how in the hell did he land a woman like this? She’s attractive, funny, and doesn’t seem at all stupid. There must be something I’m missing.
“I hope you’re not missing anything important because of me.”
“Nothing that can’t wait. You were telling me what happened to the poodle.” Mitchell is a dog. Perhaps that’s the connection, given Eve is a veterinarian.
“Weird, I thought you were telling me what my ex did to earn your hate.”
I raise my foot to my opposite knee. “Hate is such a strong word.”
“Your feelings aren’t strong?”
Weapons-grade titanium hate, not that I’ll say so. “Do I look enraged to you?”
Her gaze falls over me with the invitation, and pleasure surges through me.
“You think I’m projecting,” she says, reaching for her glass. As she sets it to her lips, sunlight turns the bubbles the color of her hair.
“It wouldn’t be without good reason.”
She gives her head the tiniest shake. “Except when I mention his name, your jaw tenses and you get a tiny twitch here.” She taps a fingertip to the corner of her eye.
“A twitch? I don’t think so.” My denial is all drawl and no substance. I won’t allow that arsehole to get under my skin. I satisfy myself with the knowledge that I’m a patient man. He’ll get what’s coming to him eventually.
“Fine, you don’t have a twitch,” she replies without an ounce of conviction. “Maybe I should have one, given my imminent future might include deportation.”
“We don’t deport people for throwing balls of paper in wedding ceremonies.”
“No, but you do for being here on the wrong visa.” With the stem between her fingers, she twists her glass this way and that, her words almost absently delivered. “I’ve got to get married to stay here. Don’t worry, that wasn’t a proposal.”
“I’m relieved,” I murmur as I give in to a half smile.
“I’m here on a spousal visa.” She shrugs. “A spousal visa without ...” A spouse. She sets down her glass as though the summary means nothing to her. I make a sympathetic noise, not having a suitable answer. “But the upside of that,” she adds, relaxing back in her chair, “is that I’m free to do what I want on my nonexistent wedding night.”
The way her eyes skate over me makes it almost impossible to miss her meaning. It’s not a question of what she’s free to do, but whom .
It was brazen, and I like it. I like her.
But I’m not going to fuck her.
Am I?