Chapter 19
OLIVER
“See, I told you he could wheel and deal while taking a leak.”
I look up from my phone, annoyed to find my mind still on Eve, but more annoyed to find Fin wearing that shit-eating grin of his. “It’s called multitasking,” I retort, pulling out the chair opposite him. “You should try it sometime.”
“I prefer to dedicate myself to one cause at a time.”
“Except when it comes to women,” Matt retorts somewhat under his breath.
I can’t believe that Eve bloody well hung up on me! That she beat me to it, at least. The corner of my mouth twitches reluctantly, because the woman delights in getting a rise out of me. It’s basically overkill. If she cared to tip her gaze south, she’d realize I’ve been walking around half-cocked since she moved in.
“Speaking of women,” Fin says, leaning over the arm of his chair. “That wasn’t a work call, because that smile you’re fighting ...” He circles a finger as though I don’t know where a smile belongs. “It looks obscene.”
“Don’t be asinine.” I put my phone down next to my knife, not sure which I’ll end up reaching for first. Sometimes it’s hard to believe Fin is in charge of investor liaisons, given he so often brings out the worst in me. He spends much of his time soothing the brows of the überwealthy and generally being affable. This niche he’s carved out for himself as a lovable rogue makes him popular with our stakeholders, who’ll forgive him (and consequently the company) of almost anything.
He’s good for business, popular with people in general, women especially, and a darling of the gossip columns. I find myself frowning as I anticipate Eve taking an inevitable shine to him. This is not like me. I’m not jealous of that peacock. But in the short time I’ve been living with Eve, my mood has turned ... unpredictable. Fucking unstable. And there’s only one person to blame.
Evelyn Hadley Fairfax, according to her passport. She and her attitude drive me to utter distraction. What’s more, I seem to have reverted to my teenage masturbation schedule. As in, morning, noon, and night. Or maybe morning, early evening, and midnight ... or whenever she’s done with her torment for the day.
“Ah. There it is. The Brit got back his stiff upper lip.”
“Fin?” I inquire pleasantly.
“Yeah?”
“Kindly fuck off.”
Tonight is important, and I arranged the dinner without advance warning for all parties concerned. I haven’t mentioned Eve to my friends, mainly to avoid their plague of niggling comments. I also kept my plans from Eve. Giving her any kind of notice risked resulting in her arriving at the table looking like the hooker she says sex with me would make her.
Chance would be a fine thing.
There’s nothing wrong with sex. Except when you’re not getting any. Like me. Like now. Sadly, there seems to be little I can do to change her mind.
Outside of that, I’ve found living with her to be diverting. Both amusing and frustrating. I’d say the same probably goes for Eve. Certainly, she always seems on the verge of delight when she gets the last word. Or when the dog’s antics piss me off.
The strange thing is, I think I like having her around. I’d be lying if I said the fascination didn’t begin with Atherton’s expression that fateful day. I could see he was annoyed, but he was also genuinely distressed. At the time, I put it down to whose car Eve was in, but now I see it was that she was leaving. It must’ve felt like the sun going out.
I dismiss the whimsical thought. The opportunity to serve him a spoon of his own medicine was just too good to ignore. Steal his bride as revenge for Lucy, then use her as a means to snap the estate out from under his nose. While Eve didn’t exactly jump at the chance for revenge, the viral video, her visa problems, and the resulting media interest were enough to persuade her.
Along with a little old-fashioned blackmail.
Atherton’s life must be so awkward right now. Vilification in the gutter press, his investors pulling away day by day. Northaby only an idea in the distance.
Meanwhile, I live a cloud-walking existence. If only. Sex would definitely help the situation, but that’s not to say I’m not enjoying the challenge that is Eve.
I think about that night more than is healthy. The feel of her silken skin and the pleasure of her soft sighs. I tell myself my interest in her doesn’t need to be defined, that base lust is part of it. Revenge another. That her resistance piques my interest. But mostly, I think it’s just her.
“Oliver, you okay, there?”
Matt’s soft Irish lilt brings me back to the moment, and I realize my gaze has strayed to the entrance of the restaurant. I’m tense, I realize, but also oddly looking forward to what Eve will bring. Will she be the sunshine or the hurricane?
“Yes. Fine. I just have a lot of plates in the air in the moment.”
“Speaking of plates,” Fin puts in, “want to tell us why there’s an extra place setting?”
I lift my glass to my lips, then answer, “Not particularly.”
Fin’s posture changes, his expression suddenly animated. “You haven’t gotten Bellsand to come.”
At the man’s name, my stomach tenses. If Eve can’t convince my friends of our relationship, what chance will she have of convincing the man who owns Northaby? I push the thought away. She can, and she will.
“Look at him, creaming his knickers.” Matt chuckles. Leaning over, he smacks his hand to the back of Fin’s head. “Sometimes I think if you were any less clever, I’d have to water you twice a week,” he says, sounding distinctly Irish despite Matías Romero being a distinctly un-Irish name.
“Fuck off,” Fin retorts.
But Matt’s right. Mortimer isn’t going to turn up to an impromptu meal. He wants to be courted—wined and dined in style. I know of at least five other parties who’ve done exactly that only to be served a polite no thanks at their purchase attempts. But at least they got that far. I haven’t been able to get him to answer his phone.
Atherton, no doubt, had a hand in that.
“No offense to this place,” Matt adds.
I wave his apology away. None taken. We’re hardly sitting in a fleapit. The best of boutique hotels are noted for their sense of style, their character. They are an experience, not just a place to lay your head. I flatter myself that we have this here. But Mortimer is old guard. He thinks anything less than the Dorchester is slumming it. I’d wager he wouldn’t deign to drink from our cellar on principle.
No matter. I have something else lined up to impress him. Someone else.
“Well, what have we here?”
An awareness slides down my spine at the exact same time as Fin opens his mouth. Resisting the urge to drive my fist into his face at his tone, I push back my chair. As I turn, everything seems to slow for a moment, the sight before me whipping my breath away.
Eve’s red-gold tresses are piled to the top of her head, and she wears a dress of emerald silk that cuts across her clavicles. Cinched tight at the waist by a thin belt, it drops to her calves, where it swishes to and fro with every step she takes. My eyes devour her from the top of her head to the lofty heels I’d like to fuck her in.
“Sorry I’m late,” she murmurs, sliding me a coy look from under her lashes. Chairs shuffle, and my companions stand, not that I have an ounce of attention for them. Eve Fairfax is fucking beautiful—but that’s not news. And it’s not the whole of her. She’s a mixture of irreverence, mystery, drama, and sheer goodness. She’s the whole fucking package, and she’s far too good to be caught up in my scheming. But here she is, lovely and oblivious. And just for a moment, I hate that it had to be her.
“Ten minutes, you said.” My reply sounds like a playful reprimand. It could be the essence of our relationship, if it weren’t all pretend. Surprise causes a ragged breath from my throat as she presses a light hand to my shoulder, grazing her lips across my cheek. The scent of her is like fucking delirium, the tendrils of her perfume like beckoning fingers. “But I forgive you.”
Will you forgive me?
“Because I’m worth waiting for, right?”
“Absolutely.” I take her hand as it slips from my shoulder. I expected a performance—theatrics. Shenanigans. What she’s delivering seems to be, on the outside, the perfect girlfriend experience.
“Like my dress?” She gives a small, graceful swing of her hips: a demonstration of how it sways. “It has pockets.”
“Did you fill them with rocks?” I think her smile must reflect mine, the inside joke going back to that fateful Saturday.
“Should I have?”
“Not for me,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Sadly,” I add, turning back to the table and the stunned faces of my friends, “I can’t vouch for these two. Fin, Matt, allow me to introduce Eve Fairfax. Eve, these reprobates are my business partners and so-called friends.”
“He’s talking about him,” Matt laughingly protests as he gestures Fin’s way. “I’m a Boy Scout. Just your average guy next door.”
“What he fails to mention is he lives next door to a brothel,” Fin retorts.
Eve giggles, and Fin flashes her that pretty grin of his, so I pull out Eve’s chair as an alternative to punching him.
“You’ll find I’m the pleasant, respectable friend. The one who is—”
“Prone to exaggeration,” I mutter as Eve takes her seat between Fin and myself. I obviously didn’t think this through. Maybe she should’ve brought those rocks.
“You guys are too funny,” Eve says happily. “Oliver didn’t tell me that.”
“I’m surprised he told you anything.”
“He’s told me so much about you.”
The men exchange a glance as Eve bursts out laughing. If sunshine had a voice, it would sound like her laughter, I decide.
“Not a thing!” she admits.
“Well, that is a relief.” Fin smiles widely. “Or we might be forced to spill a few beans of our own. Like how he hasn’t mentioned your name to us once.”
“I was keeping her all to myself,” I murmur, angling my gaze her way. Though her lashes veil her thoughts, I get a visceral kick from her pink cheeks.
“Is that a New England accent I detect?” Fin asks, leaning back in his chair.
“Connecticut,” she agrees with a small nod. “Fairfield County.”
“Westport?”
She flicks a shoulder. Not quite a yes.
“Swanky,” Fin replies anyway.
“Says the man who owns half of a resort in Thailand,” Matt mutters in the vein of Just get a holiday home like regular people.
“Westport is old money.” Fin sends me a querulous glance. “And now Oliver is, I’m sure, about to remind me that a hundred years is a long time to a dumb ’Murican.”
“And a hundred miles is a long distance to a Londoner,” Matt finishes.
“Hilarious,” I drawl as Eve watches the pair happily. I am going to need alcohol. “And I didn’t say Americans were stupid. I believe I said that, for all your Ivy League education, you can be reckless.”
“You’re confusing me with Mr. Extreme Sports over there.” He hooks a thumb Matt’s way.
“Fine, he’s reckless, and you’re stupid. Happy now?”
Fin turns to Eve. “If I’m stupid, and he’s reckless, then Oliver is ...”
“Oh.” She scrunches her nose delightfully. “Short tempered? Arrogant? Self-important?”
Fin gives a satisfied twist of his lip. “Just checking you knew what you were getting into.”
“You of all people know I never pretend to be what I’m not,” I retort.
“And what he is,” Fin says, folding his arms against the tabletop to lean in, “is the devil. Isn’t that right?” he adds, his gaze meeting mine.
“By name and by nature,” I drawl, unimpressed.
“What am I missing?” Amusement lightens Eve’s voice, though she refuses to look my way. She’s not missing anything, given she’s called me that herself.
“ Deubel. It means ‘devil,’ right, Oliver?”
“‘Devil of a man,’ if I’m being pedantic. Swiss German in origin.” I swirl the whisky around my glass before lifting my eyes to Eve. “Do you want to add that one to the list?”
Her eyes sparkle with delight. “The devil has the best disguises. Sometimes, he even pretends he’s a gentleman.”
“I’m so glad you can see me beyond the cloven hooves.”
Eve throws back her head, her laughter unrestrained. God, she sends my head spinning. Or she might if I were a different kind of man.
The waiter’s arrival is timed well. Drinks are ordered, and menus are delivered.
“Was I right?” Fin then asks. “About Westport?”
“Well, that depends,” she counters. “The rest of the county would say Westport is filled with upstarts. Besides, real old money is often more like no money left these days.”
“Rich in assets, poor in cash. Keep darning those tweeds but hang on to that Rockwell!”
“I don’t own a Rockwell, and there won’t be one in some future inheritance. As for inheriting tweed, my sutures are better than my darning skills.”
“A doctor?” Fin sounds impressed.
“Only for the deserving,” she adds prettily.
“Eve is a veterinarian,” I put it.
“Well, that makes sense.” His hands grip the arms of his chair as he turns to me with a grin, but I head him off.
“If there’s a dog in this company, it’s you, Phineas.”
“Never was a truer word spoken,” Matt agrees.
Eve laughs, and Fin protests, though the reality is he’s as happy as a dog with two dicks that he’s amused my pretty guest.
Wine is ordered and poured, when Eve slants me a provoking look from under her lashes.
“I get to order for myself today?” Her gaze is feisty, her address playful.
“Oh, no. Tell me you did not,” Fin complains. “You pompous ass!”
“I was being chivalrous.”
“It’s really not that bad,” Eve puts in. “It was just a glass of champagne, but I could see how it could become a habit.” She narrows her eyes, as though she’s trying to see inside me. Thankfully, she’s a vet and not a clairvoyant.
“Life would be easier if people listened to me.”
“Says the megalomaniac with the superiority complex,” Matt says, not hearing the suggestion in my tone. “The one we all know and like anyway. Mostly. So, Eve,” he says, turning to her, “do you live in London?”
“Hoxton,” she adds airily, which must be the place her flat was before she moved in with him . “And I work in a clinic in Knightsbridge.”
“I bet you get a lot of pampered pooches.”
“We get all kinds of pampered everything.”
“Have we met?” Fin puts in suddenly. “I can’t help but think you look familiar.”
“Do you own a pampered pooch?” Her smile seems a little stiff.
“It’ll come to me,” he says with a shake of his finger. “I’m pretty good with faces.”
“And terrible to pretty faces,” Matt mutters, picking up his menu.
“Eve helps out at an animal sanctuary in her spare time,” I add, heading off that topic of conversation. “This is a concept you won’t be familiar with, Fin, but she does it for free. Out of the goodness of her heart.”
“I think you’re confusing you with me,” he retorts, pressing his elbow to the tabletop.
“Oh, but Olly helped out recently.” Eve reaches for her wineglass.
Matt chuckles. “No way.”
“Olly?” A smile hovers on Fin’s mouth, his gaze darting between Eve and me.
“I know he doesn’t like being called that, but we all have our crosses to bear.” She puts the glass to her mouth but doesn’t immediately drink, her eyes sparkling a little maliciously. “About the sanctuary, he did say I should take a photograph because you wouldn’t believe him.”
“No, don’t say there aren’t photographs,” wails Fin. “Proof, or he paid you to say that.”
Despite Fin’s protests, I’m not sure photographic evidence would be enough. They’d no doubt accuse me of doctoring any images, dubious that I’d haul huge bags of kibble from one end of the property to the other, then shovel shit—literally—ruining a pair of handmade Italian oxfords in the process. All at the behest of an elderly woman in Wellington boots and a cardigan, who would’ve given Mussolini a run for his money. But I did what was needed. The trip to Nora’s wasn’t a waste.
“Veterinarians don’t lie.” Eve’s answer is a mixture of shock, mock offense, and disbelief. “Haven’t you heard of the vows we take?” she asks, her brown eyes wide and solemn. Only I see the mischief in them.
“There has to be an angle,” Matt puts in. “Oliver never does anything without there being something in it for him.”
“Oh, there was an angle all right,” she mutters under her breath.
“Yes, I was trying to impress you, darling.” I press my hand over hers, applying a tiny bit of pressure.
“You shouldn’t have.” Though her voice is soft, her eyes hold an entirely different tone. No, really. You shouldn’t have.