Chapter 6
When Gary walks into my office, I peek over the stack of files on my desk and smile. “Morning.”
He looks across the mess, alarmed, removing his glasses. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing happened,” I say, trying to make the piles neater.
“Amelia.” He wanders over, combing his grey quiff to one side with his fingers, and drops to one of the chairs opposite. Leaning forward, he pushes a pile aside so he can see me. “What’s happened?”
My nose scrunches. I haven’t told Gary about my personal crisis. I don’t want him to think it’s going to affect my job and therefore hamper my chances of making partner. I just have to make sure I convince the senior partners that I’m a better bet than Leighton Steers, the company’s self-professed golden boy who’s also a shameless flirt.
“I split up with my boyfriend,” I say grudgingly. “I moved back home with my parents and moved out again last night. I’m staying with a friend.” I shrug. “Her place is on the tiny side of small.”
“You split up with Nick?” he asks, surprised as he cleans his glasses. “Shit, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s for the best.”
“Why have you moved out of your parents’?”
“Why’d you think, Gary?” I ask sardonically. I would have loved to avoid divulging the circumstances of me seeking a job at a rival financial advisory company, but having the name Lazenby shat all over that wish. Everyone knows of Lazenby Finance.
“Oh,” Gary breathes, slipping his glasses back on. “Daddy’s been reminding you of your obligations as a woman again, has he?”
“You got it.”
“And now I’m up to speed on your new relationship status, I’m guessing Nick—”
“Suggested babies, yes.”
“Well, good for you for sticking to your guns.” He stands. “Heard anything from Mr. Jarvis?”
“He’s calmed down. Thanks for the heads-up yesterday about Tilda Spector, by the way.”
“No problem. Don’t bank on the rumours being true, though, okay?” Translated, Don’t slack on securing new clients . “And even if they are, she’s got the pick of the bunch to leave her precious clients with.”
Nodding, I glance at my clock, seeing I’ve only got half an hour. “I have an annual review with Mrs. Willer at one.”
“Sure, you get on. I’ve got a meeting with the senior partners.”
I try so hard to hide my curiosity. Since Paul Montgomery left after his health scare, everyone is wondering who’ll replace him. Gary knows I’m capable, and I know he’s got my back. But he’s also a fan of Leighton Steers. All the partners are.
“A meeting with all the partners?” That’s rare.
Gary smiles. “All of them. We’re keeping an eye on Galactia.”
“Me too,” I chirp. I’m living for the day the rumours are no longer rumours and my investment recommendations to many of my clients pay off.
Gary leaves, and I brush a stray strand back and tuck it into my bun, collecting Mrs. Willer’s file to recap on my agenda, but my mobile ringing stalls me opening the file. I frown down at the unknown number, letting it ring off to voicemail. A few seconds later, it’s ringing again. I answer.
“Amelia Lazenby.”
“Good afternoon, Amelia, it’s Anouska from Arlington Hall.”
I sit up straight in my chair. “Hi.”
“I hope you don’t mind, I got your number from the medical form you completed yesterday before your treatments.”
“No problem, how can I help you?”
“Your wallet was found in the ladies’ changing rooms this morning by the cleaners.”
“Oh?” I dip down by my desk and pull my handbag up onto my lap. “I hadn’t noticed it was missing.”
“It has numerous bank cards and your driver’s licence inside. I hope you don’t mind, I had to open it to see who it belonged to.”
“Not at all.” A good rummage through my bag reveals no wallet. “I use Apple Pay for everything these days.” Hence I hadn’t noticed it missing.
“I’ll keep it in the safe until you can collect it.”
“Thanks.”
“When might I expect you, just so I can let staff know in case I’m not on shift?”
Good question. “Can I let you know? I’ll have to see if a friend can bring me.”
“You don’t drive?” she asks in confusion, obviously having seen that I have a driver’s licence.
“I drive, I just don’t have a car. I live in the city. It’s Tubes for me. Much faster.”
“Oh, I see. Then just let me know when you can pick it up.”
I thank Anouska, hanging up and tapping my desk with my ballpoint, my mind taking me back to the Library Bar. Then the steam room.
And I’m burning up.
Get a grip, Amelia.
I flap the front of my dress as best I can to circulate some cool air, pouting as I check the time. “Shit.” Flipping open Mrs. Willer’s file, I start marking my notes in order of priority. First up, convince Mrs. Willer she can’t skip contributing to her pension pot this financial year or she’ll lose a massive chunk of her allowance. I scribble down a few more notes and hop onto the call, sitting back in my chair, smiling when Mrs. Willer appears. I’m certain her hair gets whiter every time I see her, not through age but through bleach. She’s a lovely-looking woman in her forties, successful, with three daughters and a bitter ex-husband. “So good to see you, Mrs. Willer.”
“Amelia, you’ve been looking after my money for nearly two years. You know my children as well as I do. Hate my ex as much as me. I think we’re past formalities. Call me Violet, please.”
I smile. “Violet.”
“Come on, then,” she says, settling back in her green velvet chair and accepting a flute off a tray being held out by her personal butler. “How much have I lost this year?”
I laugh, getting my graphs up so I can share the screen with her. “You like high risk, Violet. That comes with its cons, but I’m pleased to report a seven percent increase on your investments.”
“Oh, delightful! I’ll order that new Bentley I’ve got my eye on.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” I reply, making her chuckle.
“Spoilsport.”
“A luxury car is the worst investment you can make, Violet. We’ve talked about this.” And she has ten other luxury cars, for Christ’s sake.
“And the best?”
I smile. “Your pension.”
An hour later, I’m thrilled—and surprised—to have secured Mrs. Willer’s full commitment to her pension, as well as a nice top-up on her ISAs. Checking my diary for my next call, I see I have half an hour to shoot over to Pret to get some lunch. I grab my bag and leave, texting Abbie and Charley to see if they’re up for a workout after work. Abbie is all in. Charley has coffee and a playdate with a mum from the nursery.
I travel down in the elevator, checking myself in the mirror, smoothing back my hair and reapplying my soft pink lippy. I smack my lips and brush down my black pencil dress, which falls to my shins, wriggling my toes in my black stiletto slingbacks. I grimace, wishing I’d put on my trainers to do my lunch run. Stepping out of the elevator, I pull my phone out and scan the market as I blindly swipe my card to let myself out and walk as fast as my heels will carry me across the reception area. As I’m crossing the road, I take a call from Mum. “How’s Dad?” I ask.
“Oh, please do make peace with him, Amelia. He’s driving me mad sulking around the house. He hates that you’ve fallen out with him.”
“I haven’t fallen out with him,” I say tiredly. “I just want him to know I’m upset.”
“He knows.”
“So he’ll stop interfering with how I choose to live my life?”
“Probably not,” she grumbles. “You know your father.”
Yes, he’s a stick-in-the-mud. “What can I do?” I ask. “Apart from become a baby machine and a homemaker?”
Mum falls silent, which says it all. There’s nothing I can do. I’m not interested in proving myself. I accepted that would never happen when I quit being a glorified receptionist at the family firm and got myself a job that did my qualifications justice.
“I’ll come over this weekend,” I say on a sigh. I don’t want to not talk to my dad. I love the old bugger dearly. So I’ll make peace like I always do, by not acknowledging the problem. Brushing it under the carpet and pretending I’m not deeply wounded that he doesn’t think I’m capable of running the family business with Clark. As an equal.
“Oh good,” Mum chimes, happy. “Rachel wants to finalise the seating plan, we have a final fitting for the dresses, and her best friend, Josie, wants some help with the final plans for the hen party. I’m doing picky bits and mimosas.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“How’s things at Abbie’s?”
Cramped. “I’ve only been there one night.”
“I wish you hadn’t left.”
I push my way into Pret and grab my usual salad, not acknowledging Mum’s comment. There’s nothing I can say, and telling her I don’t need my parents breathing down my neck won’t help. “I’ll call you.” I hang up, order a tea, and pay.
I’m lost in my inbox while I make my way back across the road, juggling my lunch as I push my back into the glass doors of my building. I glance up.
And freeze.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, a wave of tingles rippling through my body, making me wobble on my heels. He’s standing at the reception desk. Suited. Looking fucking glorious. “Shit.” I come over all silly and girlie, tottering toward the ladies’ restrooms, my hurried steps hampered by the tightness of my dress around my legs and the height of my heels.
Rushing in, I free my hands of my phone and lunch, dropping my bag to the floor. My cheeks are pink. Flushed. I pat at them. Why the hell did I run away? Well, totter. Wobble? This is ridiculous. Pull yourself together!
I don’t have a chance.
The door opens, and he appears, filling the doorway before checking behind him and stepping in, letting the door close. He slips his hands into his pockets. My temperature goes through the roof. Just by his presence.
“I thought I saw you running away,” he says quietly, his voice licking my skin.
Oh my God. “You’re in the ladies’,” I blurt, straightening my shoulders, blinking back how dazzling he is.
“I am?” He glances around, and the move flexes his neck, making it taut. Jesus Christ. Then his eyes drop to my salad and iced tea. “You often eat your lunch in the ladies’?”
“I ...” I roll my eyes, exasperated by myself. “I’m washing my hands.” I flip the tap on and squirt some soap into them, massaging it to a lather. “What are you doing here?” Encountering the most delicious male specimen I’ve ever seen in my life twice in as many days cannot be pure luck.
He rests his arse back against the line of sinks and places his hands on the edge. He’s getting comfortable? My God, I could cry he’s so fucking hot. His pale-grey suit fits him disgustingly well. I look at the door.
“Nervous someone will interrupt us?”
“Interrupt us doing what, exactly?” I continue massaging soap into my hands. “Me asking you why you’re following me?”
He laughs under his breath, and the sound is like warm honey trickling over my skin. It’s an effort to conceal my hitch of breath, and judging by the amused glint in his eyes, which are on the greener side of teal today, I’ve failed spectacularly. “I’m not following you, Amelia.”
Don’t say my name, I might die of pleasure on the spot. “You often hang around ladies’ restrooms bothering women?”
“Am I bothering you?”
My hands are going to disappear in a minute. But will my brain tell me what comes after soaping? No. I ignore his question and soap some more, my eyes on my task.
“Let me help.”
“What?”
He’s suddenly behind me, his tall, lean hardness close. Hot. My eyes shoot to his in the mirror as his arms circle me and his hands rest on my forearms. I still. Breathe in. Get a potent hit of his beautiful cologne. It’s musky but fresh. A bit of oud? I don’t know, but it’s as intoxicating as the man himself.
Frozen, I watch as he slides his hands down my forearms, his fingers slipping through mine as he starts massaging the soap. My heart batters against my chest. A harsh thud smacks me between my legs, forcing me to tense my thighs. Oh ... my ... God. His breathing deepens. His groin pushes into my arse. His expression is serious. His lips part, his perfect white teeth bite at the edge, and I find myself mimicking his move. Jesus, he feels divine, his hands as expert as I imagined they would be.
I’m incapacitated as he dedicates time to each one of my fingers, rubbing his middle finger in between, my eyes constantly moving from his to our hands. I’m suddenly not in the ladies’, but somewhere else. Somewhere wonderful.
“How was your body wrap?” he asks quietly and casually, as if he’s not seducing me with his masterful hands on mine.
“Out of this world,” I whisper.
“Good.” He dips and smells my neck, and my whole body goes up in smoke, my head falling back a little. What the fuck am I doing? “You had the Relax and Unwind. I can still smell the lavender on your skin. Are you relaxed?”
I moan, and I absolutely cannot stop it. “Yes.”
His erection pushes gently into my backside. “Me too.”
“Oh God.” I feel the warm sensation of the water rinsing away the suds, stuck in a trance, sky high on pleasure. My nipples are tingling, along with every inch of my skin.
“Oh God,” he breathes in reply, nipping at my neck. I’m done for. I’m about to spin around and kiss him, eat him alive, my inhibitions lost, but the sound of a paper towel being snatched from the dispenser stops me. I snap my eyes open and find he’s patting the water away. “So wet,” he says quietly.
Then he steps back and leaves me to hold myself up alone. I’m struggling. A sheen of sweat coats his brow, his greeny-blue eyes misty. “Now will you come to dinner with me?”
“You came here to ask me to dinner?”
“No, I came here to see my lawyer on the third floor. Finding you here was just a bonus.” He raises his brows, and I’m suddenly on planet Earth again. In the ladies’. With a stranger. If hands could have sex, ours just did it.
I inwardly laugh, smoothing my hair back. If my cheeks were flushed when I entered the bathroom, they’re on fire now, along with the rest of my body.
“So?”
I still, my hand on my nape fixing my hair, my eyes on his. “I don’t think so.” Dangerous. Look what he just did. I was putty in his hands. I expect many women are.
“Not even after the best foreplay of your life?”
I laugh. “You’re quite cocky, aren’t you.”
“Tell me it wasn’t the best foreplay you’ve ever had.”
I grab my lunch and face him, fighting with everything I have to keep my body and voice steady. It was the best foreplay I’ve ever had! “It was good to see you.”
“Good?” he asks as I pass him, taking my wrist and pulling me to a stop. “Stop being so stiff.”
I tilt my head, dropping my eyes to his groin. “I believe you are the one who’s stiff.”
My retort delights him, his grin mischievous and fucking stunning. “You will be having dinner with me.”
“You’re not my type.”
“And what’s your type?”
“Less forward.”
His hands come up in surrender, and he takes one step back. “Life’s too short to fuck around playing cat-and-mouse games, Amelia.”
“I don’t play games at all.” I leave the bathroom before I get myself into something I’m wholly unprepared for, walking on wobbly legs to the elevator. I call Abbie on my way, my fingers shaky on the screen. She doesn’t answer, so I try again. Still no answer. Come on, Abbie, I need you!
I text her.
Answer, answer, answer!
I dial again, and this time she answers on a hushed whisper. “What’s happened? Are you okay?”
“Oh my God, Abbie,” I wail, hitting the call button for the elevator, looking over my shoulder to the ladies’ bathroom. “He’s here.”
“What?”
“The man from Arlington Hall. I just grabbed some lunch and spotted him in the lobby. He was here to see his lawyer.”
“Shit, did you speak to him?”
I laugh. “I think our hands just had sex.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I dashed into the bathroom to hide. He followed me in.”
“Why did you hide?” she asks but doesn’t give me a second to answer. “Oh my God, you like him!”
“I don’t know him.” But my hands certainly do. I hit the call button again.
“Wait, we need a three-way.” Abbie’s phone rustles as she dials Charley and lets her join the call. “Amelia’s hands just had sex with the disgustingly hot guy’s hands from the spa.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Charley asks, and then immediately apologises to her babies for her bad language.
“I just saw him in the lobby at work,” I explain, trying to get Charley up to speed, looking over my shoulder. I freeze, snapping my mouth shut. And there he is, watching me beat the crap out of the call button while talking urgently down the line. He smiles at the phone on my ear, surely knowing I’m putting in an emergency call to my girlfriends. Great. “He’s looking at me now,” I whisper. “I’m fucking melting.”
The girls laugh, and the doors open. I rush inside and start breathing easy again.
“Talk to me about hand sex,” Charley orders, clattering and bangs happening in the background. “It’s a new one to me.”
“He followed me into the bathroom. Helped me wash my hands. I think I groaned. I know I groaned. His dick was fucking solid and pulsing into my—” I snap my mouth shut when he appears at the elevator doors, stopping them from shutting. “I’ve got to go,” I whisper as he steps inside.
“Amelia, no!” Abbie yells as I pull my mobile away from my ear. “His dick was what?”
The doors close. “I want to hear more about hand sex!” Charley adds.
I slam my thumb down on the red icon to end the call and shut my friends up, dying on the inside as he joins me. He’s so close. So I take a step away, suffocating, staring at the mirrored doors, my eyes on his lovely brown dress shoes and perfectly fitted trousers. I can’t stop my gaze creeping up his legs. “Still stiff,” he murmurs.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, laughing. “And now you’re following me into the elevator.”
He leans past me, his arm brushing my breast. He stills. “I’m not the only one with something stiff around here.”
I press my lips together and will my nipples to pipe down as he hits the button for floor three. Frans Franklin & Co Solicitors. Okay, so he’s definitely here on business. It’s a coincidence. Just a coincidence.
The elevator starts moving, and he steps back into position beside me, his hands joined in front of him. Those fucking hands. My mobile starts ringing. Abbie. I reject the call. Then Charley. I reject her too, peeking out the corner of my eye at him. And quickly looking away when he catches me.
The lift stops, the door opens and he steps out, giving me air. Or some, at least. He gazes at me through hooded eyes. “My hands want to have sex with your hands again.”
He tilts his head, and the doors close. “Fucking hell.” I fall back against the wall and fan my face with my salad pot, trying to get my body under control before I combust. I laugh to myself. Cringe. “Fucking hell,” I murmur.
By the time I’ve gathered myself, the girls have called me a further five times and I’m back on my floor much later than I hoped. I have a call to prep for. I text them that I’ll see them at the gym after work and ignore their disgust but smile to myself when Charley says she’ll be there. Obviously my recent encounter with the good-looking bastard from Arlington Hall is good enough reason to cancel the playdate and get her arse to the gym while the kids are in the creche.
Gary’s in my office when I get there, still somewhat flustered. “Hey,” I say, dumping my lunch on my desk. “How was your meeting with the partners?”
“Uptight Uriel is still uptight, and Sue is as frightening as ever.” He drops a file on my desk. “Check out the new short-term plans released by Hello World. You might like them.”
“Thanks.” I fall into my chair and pull my salad close, but my appetite has run for the hills, my stomach in knots. I scrunch my nose and push it away.
“The conference next week,” Gary goes on.
“What about it?”
“The venue’s changed.”
“Oh. What happened?”
“The Hilton double-booked us. Luckily, they have an alternative option.”
“Where?”
“Arlington Hall,” he says, easy-breezy, smiling. What? “It’s in Oxfordshire. Dead posh. Every cloud and all that.”
I stare at Gary’s back as he leaves, my mouth lax.
Arlington Hall.
What the fucking hell?