Chapter 9
Frantic and sweaty thanks to running from the Tube, I bound up the stairs and straight into my dad’s room. When I find him sleeping, I back out quietly but end up squealing as I step into Sandy.
‘Let’s move; you haven’t got much time.’ She drags me by the hand towards my bedroom.
‘All right, Sandy, Jesus, you’re going to pull my arm out of the socket.’
‘Nonsense. Strip. You need to get in the shower.’
As I’m taking off my office attire, I notice a Harrods dress bag hanging on the front of my wardrobe, then a Louboutin shoebox resting by the bed. ‘What’s this?’
Sandy smiles. ‘A lovely man dropped them for you earlier. Geoffrey Jackson he said his name is. Mr Ryans’ driver, apparently. Quite a dish.’
I raise an eyebrow at the unusual sight of Sandy animated over a man. She uses the dress bag as a distraction, turning her back to me to pull down the zip and reveal an evening gown.
If it were possible, my jaw would quite literally hit the floor.
I stroke the tips of my fingers over the floor-length, crimson satin.
The rim of the sweetheart neckline is encrusted with clear crystals.
My heart sinks when I feel the bones in the tiny waist. It’ll never fit.
Sandy pulls open the shoebox to show me matching satin shoes, the buckle similarly crystal-encrusted.
From another bag, she holds up ivory, elbow-length gloves.
I try on the gloves, holding out my hands and turning them in front of me. There’s a small box beneath them and in it, what I suspect are real pearls – a beautiful, delicate necklace, a matching bracelet and drop earrings. With them, a note:
Because I know you’re worried about timing, one less thing to think about.
Timing really isn’t my issue; that I’m falling helplessly for a client is a major problem. Regardless, I can’t accept all this, not from a client, nor an extraordinarily sexy man.
‘Lady, get in the shower; you need to get a move on.’
I look over the new bags and boxes. I don’t have time to argue and he’ll know it. Once again, the CEO is going to get his own way with me.
I decide I only have time to roughly curl and pin up my hair, which I do in a panic. I put on my make-up and look at the clock: seven-fifteen. I’m already late. Sandy helps me put the dress on over my head, being careful not to knock my hair or get make-up on the fabric.
‘I’m going to return it tomorrow,’ I tell her . Remarkably, the dress fits perfectly. ‘How did he know?’
Sandy chuckles mischievously.
‘Did he ask you?’
She shrugs. ‘I got a call from Harrods.’
I can’t begin to understand the logistics of that but from what little I know of Gregory Ryans, nothing should surprise me.
Sandy helps me put on the jewellery and gloves. She holds my hand as I step into the Louboutins. The dress elegantly trails the floor by an inch at the back.
Sandy gasps as she turns me to face the floor-length mirror. I watch her reflection as she considers my hair then the dress and eventually meets my eye. It’s a look I’ve seen before: when she watched my first school play, when she got me ready for my high-school prom.
‘I can’t believe he bought this for me,’ I say, smoothing the sides of the dress against my hips.
‘He obviously has very good taste.’
‘We’re not, you know?—’
‘Mmm-hmm,’ she says, tittering again.
* * *
Jackson is waiting outside as promised and from their brief exchange, it’s clear that Sandy’s uncommon flirtation is reciprocated, a thought that makes me feel both happy and cringy all at once.
Jackson pulls up to the edge of the red carpet around seven forty-five. I’m suddenly nervous, my pulse rate higher than I would have thought humanly possible.
‘He’s in there,’ I say as Jackson gives me his hand to step out of the Mercedes.
He smirks and I’m instantly embarrassed.
An extravagant gold and mahogany staircase descends from the hotel entrance into a large reception room.
I stand at the top searching the crowd of dinner suits and dresses nibbling canapés and sipping champagne from waiters in black, buttoned waistcoats and black trousers or skirts.
Lights glisten in the regal, crystal chandeliers.
A female soloist sings soft soul music against her backing band.
I see him. A beacon in the crowd. His back is to me but the chill running the length of my spine tells me it’s him.
He turns. His eyes meet mine and I’m breathless.
There’s only him in the room. He moves his right hand to his chest and opens his mouth as if about to speak.
My legs continue to move me down the staircase, my mind elsewhere.
I blink and he’s gone, as if he’d been a figment of my imagination.
I’m almost at the bottom of the staircase, desperate to find him again, but I cast my focus down to watch my satin shoe as I take the last step.
When I look up, he’s here, in his dinner suit and black bow tie, his dark hair slicked back.
‘You’re stunning,’ he says, his hand still held to his chest.
My smile spreads across my entire face. ‘Thank you for the dress.’
‘God, you’re welcome,’ he whispers, bending to kiss me on the cheek.
His lips send fire through my veins. I close my eyes and liquefy under his touch, overwhelmed by his voice, his scent, him .
He leads me back to his group. Williams has brought Amanda and they appear in every way to be the perfect couple, his easy manner, her smiles, her royal-blue, sculpted dress and dazzling, auburn hair. She’s barely an inch from his side as they laugh with the others.
‘Scarlett, you already know Williams, Lawrence and, of course, Amanda. This is my mother, Lara,’ Gregory says.
Lara grabs me with her champagne-free arm and kisses me on both cheeks. ‘It’s so nice to finally meet you, Scarlett,’ she says, with a strong South African accent. ‘How are you?’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lara,’ I say, slightly startled by her overly friendly greeting and processing that word, finally . ‘I’m very well, thank you.’ I glance at Gregory, who seems to purposefully avoid my eyes.
Lawrence wraps an arm around Lara’s waist. ‘Shall we take our seats?’
‘Okay, darling.’ Lara floats away from us, her movements the epitome of elegance. Her long, demure, black dress trailing the floor as she leaves. Her brunette chignon exposing her neck and emphasising the length of her slim body.
The gents – Gregory, Lawrence, Williams and another business partner of Gregory’s – take their seats at the table in unison after the ladies.
‘Lawrence and your mum?’ I whisper to Gregory as he takes his seat next to me.
He leans back as two waiters simultaneously place a napkin in his lap and a bread roll on his side plate. ‘They’ve been together since I was ten.’
‘Ten! What’s next? Williams is your brother and your mum really owns Sea People International?’
Gregory glares at me then shakes his head.
Lara thankfully interrupts as I mentally chastise myself for being too familiar and remind myself that I’m taking dinner with my client.
Except, I’ve never sat next to a client and struggled to concentrate on my next move.
I’ve never sat so close to a client and had to force my hands not to reach out and touch him.
I’ve never had to squeeze my pulsing thighs shut beneath the dinner table because I’m thinking about how my client would feel inside me.
Lara leads the table in good-spirited conversation. It’s catching. Between that and the wine flowing, I start to relax. Playful jibes pass across the table between the men, including Gregory. It’s nice to see a small chink in his otherwise stoic armour.
‘A toast,’ Lara announces, holding up her glass. ‘To having my favourite men at one table. You all look dashingly handsome. And to the gorgeous ladies: it’s a pleasure to have you here. Scarlett, Amanda, welcome.’
We all stand to clink glasses.
‘For the record, Williams is not my brother,’ Gregory whispers to me. ‘But he is my oldest friend. He was my first friend when we moved to England.’
Gregory catches his oldest friend’s eye and subtly raises a glass to the air.
A waitress places a plate of foie gras, with the smallest amount of rocket salad and a slice of Melba toast, in front of me and my wine glass is topped up again.
‘As for my mother, she designs bags,’ he says, leaning into my ear. He pauses to sip his wine then continues, this time loud enough for his mother to hear. ‘She’s incredibly talented but she doesn’t have a particularly business-savvy mind.’
Lara fakes a shocked gasp. ‘You take that back, young man!’
He smiles. A true and shockingly handsome smile.
Another side to the CEO.
Amanda regales the table with tales of our time at university.
I give her the playful warning eye but she knows which stories she can tell and where to draw the line.
On more than one occasion, I find myself defending my uncoordinated dancing at formal dinners and unintentionally inappropriate comments to our professors.
What can I say, I liked the challenge.
‘You should see her bust out the moves to “Mr Brightside”.’ Amanda tells everyone.
I almost splutter my wine, laughing as I remember the moves and Amanda sings the lyrics.
‘Bruising your feet to The Killers is a right of passage,’ I say.
When I’m composed, I notice Gregory watching me intently, a look that resonates in all my sensitive spots.
I take a punt. It could be disastrous. It certainly is inappropriate.
I lean into his ear and pause to inhale his deadly musk before I speak.
‘Since we’re sharing tonight, I want to put you straight on something.
Today, you referred to me as a girl who once read a textbook.
You were right about corporate law but you were wrong to call me a girl. ’
I linger there, at his neck, both to shield my blushes and to question my motives. I’m there long enough to hear his subtle hitch of breath.