Chapter 5 #2
The doorman dips his head as he opens the door.
Gregory steps to one side and gestures for me to walk ahead of him.
Almost immediately as we step on to the pavement, a black Mercedes pulls up to the kerb.
The driver is a burly man in a black suit and white shirt.
The veins of his hands bulge under his dark skin and his shaved head shows a few remnants of black hair amongst grey stubs.
He looks good for his age but given I’d put money on him being ex-forces of some sort; he can’t be under forty.
He holds open the rear passenger door and Gregory steps to one side as I climb in, followed by Williams and Amanda, still giggling at each other.
Gregory walks around the back of the car and takes a seat up front next to the driver.
‘Where are we going?’ Amanda asks excitedly. ‘Nowhere expensive, I hope. My pops is already bailing me out this month.’
‘Again?’ I ask.
‘I needed new work clothes,’ she reasons. ‘He’s talking about stopping my monthly allowance.’
‘You still get a monthly allowance?’ Gregory and I ask in unison.
He shifts in his seat to look at me and smiles. It’s an easy, soft, gentle smile. Uncommon, I’d bet, and undeniably attractive.
‘I’m a single girl living in the city. A two bed in Camden doesn’t come cheap. He can’t cut me off.’
‘We’re interrupting your evening,’ Williams says. ‘The least we can do is pay for dinner.’
‘Absolutely not!’ I protest. ‘Thank you for the offer but you’re clients of ours. It would be our pleasure to buy you dinner.’
‘This isn’t a business meeting, Scarlett,’ Amanda scolds me, then bats her eyelashes at Williams.
‘Amanda—’ I attempt.
‘Ladies don’t pay,’ Gregory speaks, this time without turning in his seat. His voice is stern and although I feel entirely belittled, I know the discussion is over.
I fight my usual inclination to counterargue, but smoulder beneath my skin and resign to watch passersby through the window without saying another word for the rest of the journey.
Ladies don’t pay. It occurs to me that I’ve heard my dad use that turn of phrase before.
The thought softens my prickly mood just enough to allow me to remember that I’m in the company of clients.
If only Amanda could behave herself, just this once.
She’s very much in her comfort zone, merrily chatting and flirting outrageously with Williams. Amanda’s always on the prowl for a wealthy man who could allow her to be a lady of leisure.
We had endless conversations at Cambridge about Amanda wanting that kind of life – lunching at fine establishments like The Beverley and having beauty treatments in the afternoon, like her mother.
Amanda suffers from stereotypical OCS – Only Child Syndrome – but she has a good heart and I love her for having the conviction to be herself, to do what she wants to do and not what others expect of her.
Reading my mind, she reaches for my hand, gently squeezing it in hers, and giving me a knowing smirk that amuses me enough to improve my mood 100 per cent.
The Mercedes slows to a stop outside Heron Tower, the glass structure looming over us so tall, it’s impossible see the top, even craning my neck. I reach into my bag for my purse but Williams puts his hand over mine to stop me.
Gregory inclines his head in thanks to the driver. ‘Jackson.’
Of course, he has a personal driver. Who doesn’t?
Jackson opens my door first. Gregory’s already waiting on the pavement.
He offers his hand to help me out of the car.
I hesitate but take it to be polite. The kiss of his palm drives a hot sensation all over my body, unsteadying me enough that I have to I put my spare hand on the first thing it touches for support.
That first thing happens to be Jackson’s shoulder, and he’s mocking me with his eyes.
I suspect he’s seen Gregory’s effect on women countless times. ‘Sorry, Jackson. Thank you.’
‘You’re more than welcome, Miss Heath.’ His voice is a deep, masculine rumble but there’s humour in it, too.
I’m already walking away when it strikes me that he knows my name. I turn to ask him how but Gregory tugs slightly on my hand.
‘After you,’ he says, signalling for me to walk ahead of him onto the short, red carpet laid out to welcome guests.
‘The fourth tallest building in London. Nice choice, Mr Ryans.’
His eyes narrow but there’s a ghost of a smug smile creasing the sides of his perfectly plump mouth. I bite down on my bottom lip, trying to suppress my desire to taste him.
A concierge in black dinner trousers, a white jacket fastened with dazzling gold buttons and the shiniest black patent shoes I’ve ever seen, holds open the door.
Inside, we’re received by a similarly dressed ma?tre d’. ‘Good evening,’ he says to me. ‘It is wonderful to see you again, Mr Ryans.’
The sound of my stilettos against the marble tiles echoes as we all follow him to the lift. Something about the whole situation makes me more mindful of my height in them, my body shape, and the rotation of my hips each time I plant my feet.
He greets Williams and Amanda in similar fashion and the mirror-panelled doors close. Catching a glimpse of my reflection, that confidence I felt momentarily dissolves into self-doubt.
‘Your eyes look fierce in that colour,’ Amanda whispers into my ear.
People have always commented on my green and hazel eyes, ever since I was a girl, but I’ll never understand it. They’re as ordinary as every other part of me.
The lift doors open onto another marble floor, leading to an equally fancy desk where we’re met by an immaculately presented woman with a high-gloss, blonde French roll, wearing a tight, black skirt and white shirt that show her perfect curves.
Her piercingly blue eyes are alive and wild as she studies Gregory.
I half-expect her to lick her lips, growl and start humping his leg.
Yet he never pays her more than a cursory glance.
‘Good evening, Mr Ryans. Let me show you to your table,’ she says, fluttering her eyelids one too many times, in my opinion.
‘I bet she’d like to show Mr Ryans a lot more than that,’ I mutter to myself, all the while smiling graciously at her delayed acknowledgement that Mr Ryans has guests.
Amanda tugs my shoulder, pulling my head back toward her as we walk in line to our table. ‘Who is this man?’ she whispers. ‘I feel like I should have known him before I met him.’
A young male waiter is already standing to attention like a toy soldier next to our table.
‘Wow, the view of the city is stunning from here,’ I say, genuinely struck by the lights twinkling from each tower block and bridge of London. ‘How high up are we?’ I ask the waiter as he guides me towards the window seat on one side of the table.
‘We’re on the fortieth floor, Miss Heath. The highest restaurant in the city,’ he replies proudly, placing a black napkin across my lap before doing the same for Amanda. Once again, I’m left wondering how a complete stranger knows my name.
‘Would you like the usual to drink, Mr Ryans?’ the waiter asks.
‘Thank you, yes,’ Gregory instructs.
The waiter immediately scuttles away.
‘What’s the usual?’ I ask Gregory, who’s taken the seat opposite mine.
He looks me in the eye and I study the flecks and enigma of his irises as he responds.
I’m forced to look away to the view beneath us for fear he’ll see right through my business facade to my racing heart.
‘A bottle of Pol Roger 2002 to start, followed by a bottle of Penfolds Grange 1998.’ His voice hosts an edge of superiority.
‘Oh good, I was worried you’d try to impress us by diving straight in for Cristal.’ I laugh sarcastically. ‘You’ve certainly gone up in my estimations, Mr Ryans.’
The table sits in stunned silence. Clearly, people don’t usually talk back to this billionaire.
He clears his throat and pauses, holding his closed fist to his mouth a second longer than necessary.
‘You intrigue me, Miss Heath. I wonder how low I was in your estimations.’
His face is humourless, his strong, square jaw tight. I’m studying his masculine angles as I realise that I’ve been relegated back to ‘Miss Heath.’ I can’t help but like the sound of it when it comes from him. I feel his words like hot breath on my clit, making my own hitch.
Him. He who is your client. Get a hold of yourself.
The silence at the table lasts for what seems like an age, broken only when our waiter pops the cork of the Pol Roger tableside. Gregory studies me intensely as the waiter pours four glasses of the champagne.
‘Cheers,’ Amanda says, thrusting her glass high.
I let the smooth effervescence cool my hot, dry throat.
‘So, you know good wine, Scarlett.’ Gregory’s first words in what seems like an eternity are music to my ears.
His manner is friendly, or as light as I’ve heard it at least. I realise he was teasing me, teaching me not to undermine him.
I offer my best playful pout and he flashes me a mischievous grin.
My internal organs perform acrobatics, from my chest right down to the lowest point of my abdomen.
I hardly know this man and I can’t comprehend the way he’s making me feel.
‘Her dad has an enormous wine cellar,’ Amanda offers in a bid to rescue me. ‘He and Scarlett used to holiday in chateaus in the South of France.’
‘Used to?’ Gregory asks.
‘My dad,’ I say, almost involuntarily. I check my watch and it’s nine-fifteen.
‘Sorry, Scarlett, I didn’t mean to re?—’
‘No, please, it’s fine, Amanda. Honestly. I just need to make a quick call, if you’ll excuse me.’
Both Gregory and Williams rise from their seats when I hurriedly leave the table.
Sandy answers as I lean back against the stone sink in the ladies’. She tells me that Dad has had a good day and he’s tucked up in bed. She intends to put her feet up with an eighties’ movie and a peach melba pudding that she had delivered with the shopping today.