Chapter 11
“It’s hardly accessible, is it?” Clark says as he weaves the country roads to Arlington Hall. “Whose idea was it to move the conference here?”
“The Hilton double-booked, apparently. This was a last resort.” I lift my shades and look at the clear blue sky, inhaling the countryside air through the slightly open window of Clark’s Range Rover Sport. I got absolutely zero work done on the train as intended, only adding to my restlessness. “It just smells so clean, doesn’t it?”
“It smells like horseshit to me.”
“You couldn’t live in the country?”
“Fuck no. Look.” Clark points to his dashboard, in particular the bars on his network service. “One bar.”
I lower my shades and check my own phone. I don’t have any bars. I scrunch my nose, but then gasp when one bar appears. And quickly disappears again. I drop it back into my bag.
“So explain the new hairdo,” he says, looking across at me, smiling.
Uncomfortable, I reach for my long hair and comb through the ashy blond waves. “It’s not new.”
“It’s down.”
“And?”
“And you never wear your hair down for work.”
“It gets in my way.” Stiff. I squirm.
“Jesus, these roads are narrow,” Clark grumbles, slowing to a crawl on a corner. “Fuck!” An alarm on the car starts beeping, and Clark slams on the brakes, making my hand shoot out and grab the dashboard.
“Jesus, get me there alive, won’t you?” I breathe.
“If I can get you there at all. How the hell am I supposed to get past that monster?”
I spot what he’s talking about and frown. A huge yellow tractor, as wide as the road is, the gigantic wheels creeping onto the verge on each side. And it just keeps coming at us. “I think he wants you to back up.”
Clark looks in the rearview mirror, assessing what’s behind us. “I didn’t see any passing bays, did you?”
“I wasn’t looking.” The tractor keeps coming. “Hasn’t he noticed us?”
“Shit.” Clark knocks the car into reverse and starts backing up the road, and my neck cranes, looking up into the tractor’s cab. The old boy behind the wheel looks straight over the Range Rover, and I question whether he’s actually seen us.
“He’s chewing a wheat sheaf,” I say. “And wearing a bucket hat. How country.”
“Wonderful,” Clark mutters, eventually making it to a small lay-by and pulling in. The tractor chugs past, the farmer’s attention never faltering from the road ahead. “You’re welcome,” Clark says in disbelief. “Ignorant fuckwit.” He pulls back out and puts his foot down, and we’re soon pulling through the gold gates of Arlington Hall. “Fucking hell,” he murmurs.
“I know.” I shift in my seat, admiring the crystal-clear stream stretching into the distance.
“You know?”
“This is where I came for my spa day with the girls.”
“Of course,” Clark breathes, pulling to a stop at the gatehouse. “I thought I’d heard of it when we got the change-of-venue email.” Letting down his window, he smiles at the man on the gate—the same man who let Abbie through last week. I read the name on his badge. Nelson. “Clark Lazenby and Amelia Lazenby. Here for the conference.”
“Yes, of course.” He gestures down the driveway. “Please, there’s staff at the entrance who will direct you to the car park.”
“Thanks.” The barrier lifts and Clark drives through, continuing to ooh and ahh at the plush grounds of Arlington Hall. “Fuck, there’s a helicopter pad. I wonder who owns this place? Now that would be a client to bag.”
“Her name was Evelyn Harrison,” I say. “She died. I don’t know who owns it now.”
“I’ll soon find out.” Clark hits me with a cheeky grin, pulling up around the fountain. “My God, that’s a Jaguar E-Type Roadster.”
“What?”
He points to a silver vintage car, practically drooling. “It’s my dream car.”
“I thought this was your dream car?”
“It was. Shit, a 1961?” He gets out of his Range Rover and walks the length of the car, admiring the shiny paintwork. “Do you know how rare these are? And, fuck, it’s in mint condition. It must be worth a small fortune.”
“Since when have you been interested in classic cars?” I ask, getting my workbag out and leaving my gym bag on the back seat.
“Since one of my new clients gave me a private viewing of his collection.”
Arlington Hall looms over us as I take in air. It’s crazy the apprehension I’m feeling. Crazy. But I can’t help feeling it. The last time I was here, just over a week ago, I got something wholly unexpected.
Butterflies.
“This way, please, madam,” a green-suited man says, guiding me toward the reception area. I walk in and immediately find Evelyn Harrison’s portrait.
“That’s her,” I say to Clark. “Isn’t she something?” Just the way she holds herself. So bloody elegant.
“You know,” Clark says wistfully, “some people you just look at and know they’re richer than God.” He spots some colleagues and wanders off as Anouska comes out of a staff door behind reception. She looks up, sees me, frowns, and then realises who she’s looking at, smiling. It must be my hair that momentarily threw her.
“Hi,” I say, approaching.
“Miss Lazenby, how lovely to see you.” I can tell she’s dreading the possibility of me grilling her over the information a perfect stranger got from a confidential file she holds.
“I’m here for the conference, so thought I’d grab my wallet.”
“Of course. I’ll get it from the safe.” She hurries off and returns a moment later, handing it over. “Registration is that way.” She points to a glass corridor that leads to another part of the hotel. “In the Kent Suite. Just a heads-up, given the change in venue, we’re asking attendees to reselect their dinner choices.” She smiles, awkward. “Please do make sure you let them know about your allergy.”
“I will.”
“Is it severe?” she asks, joining me on the walk through the glass tunnel toward the Kent Suite.
“I don’t think so. I didn’t drop down dead when I took a bite of my friend’s Nutella toast when we were ten, so that’s positive.” I reach into my handbag. “I’ve been caught out a few times over the years, so I carry these.”
Anouska looks at my EpiPens and winces. “Caught out?”
“I picked up the wrong iced coffee in Pret once.” My nose scrunches. “It had almond syrup in it.”
“Oh no, what happened?”
“Breathlessness, fast heart. A mad dash for the ladies’ to sit down in private and let the EpiPen do its work.”
“And that’s it? You give yourself a shot and you’re okay?”
“Pretty much.” I slip my EpiPens back in my handbag. “The first few times it happened, my mum would take me to the hospital so they could monitor me, but I’ve learned to manage it over the years and listen to my body.” I’m dying, just dying, to ask her how she knows the man. Who is he? How old, his name, what he does for a living? I quickly pull my thoughts back into line, getting increasingly frustrated with myself and my inability to keep my mind from straying to him.
“Let me know if you need anything—I’ll be happy to help.” Anouska’s peace offering for giving out information on me?
“Thanks.” I smile as she walks off, but it drops when I see someone. He spots me, and I groan as he puffs his chest out. Of course I knew he’d be here. Of course I planned on avoiding him; I make a point of it daily at work. Problem is, Leighton Steers likes to be seen. And heard. And admired.
“Lazenby,” he says, smoothing a hand through his hair. He should have been a salesman. Slick.
“Steers,” I say, my smile tight.
“What’s with the hair?” He reaches for my loose blond waves and flaps them a little, and it’s all I can do not to kick him in the bollocks. He doesn’t intend to be sexist. It’s in his bloodline.
“Don’t touch my hair, Steers,” I warn, a little playful, a lot serious. His hands come up in surrender, his body moving back. I can’t believe this is the douchebag I’m up against for partner.
“Nice place, huh? I bet the lucky fucker who owns this is worth a few quid.” He jiggles his eyebrows. “They’ll be my client by the end of the day, just you watch.”
“If they own this place, I expect they have their financial affairs in order.”
“Everyone is free game.” Leighton swaggers off and gets all guy-like with a few of the men from LB&B.
“God, I hate him.”
“Why?” Gary’s assistant, Shelley, joins me, holding out a lanyard. “Because he’s sexist and narrow-minded? Or because he’s a plain dickhead?” I laugh as Shelley gives me a sardonic look, and I accept my name badge. “If it makes you feel any better, I hope you thrash him and make partner.”
“Thanks.”
“I better go hand out the rest of the name badges. I have a special one for Leighton.” She holds up a little white card that says prick and slips it behind the card with his name on it. I press my lips together and watch Shelley slope off, slipping my lanyard over my head and frowning when I have to reach back and sweep my hair out from under it. I should have tied it up.
After a coffee and a few hellos, we’re directed through another glass tunnel and I’m once again in awe of Arlington Hall. Blades of water pour over smooth stone troughs onto pebbled channels that stretch the length of the walkway, and canopies of huge palm leaves climb the glass. White gloss wooden doors lead into a huge auditorium reminiscent of an old theatre, the chairs deep-red velvet, the fittings gold and intricate. It’s very art deco, and absolutely stunning.
“It’s the fanciest conference room I’ve ever seen,” Gary muses as I gaze up to the gold cornicing decorating the ceiling. With every inch more of Arlington Hall I see, Evelyn Harrison becomes more of an icon.
An attendant guides me to the third row, and I lower to the soft plush chair, with Shelley on the inside of me and Gary and Leighton on the outer two seats. I see many faces I recognise from the industry, nods and handshakes happening all around.
“I like the hair,” Shelley says, forcing my hand back up to brush it over my shoulder.
“Thanks.” I never anticipated my hair would cause such a stir. I collect the program from the back of the seat in front of me and flick through the schedule, making sure I’m carving out enough time during the one-to-ones to move in on my intended targets. My phone dings, and I open the message from Tilda Spector, smiling.
Are you here? I’ve not seen you. TS.
Third row back, near the aisle.
I crane my neck, searching the auditorium for her mop of silver hair and signature thick-framed glasses. I come up blank, returning my attention to my mobile when it dings again.
Oh, I see you. I’m four rows behind you. I didn’t recognise you with your hair down. TS.
I roll my eyes and turn, craning my head and finding her past someone directly behind me. “Hey,” I say, holding up a hand. “Would be great to catch up later if you have some time.”
“Always time for you, Amelia.” Her brown, friendly eyes shine behind her glasses. “How’s Nick?”
My lips straighten. “He’s good.”
Tilda takes her compact mirror out of her designer purse and checks her lips. She’s so quirky, famous in the industry for being stylish as well as studious. Her frames always match her outfit, and today she’s in a cobalt-blue skirt suit with matching frames. “Find me after lunch.”
I nod and return my attention to the stage, feeling Leighton’s beady eyes directed at me. I look across Gary to him and smile, all friendly, as a woman in a trouser suit walks onto the stage, approaching the podium and adjusting the microphone. Waiting for the noise to die down, she smooths back her slick hair, and I think to myself how ... stiff she looks. I cringe and tuck one side of my hair behind my ear, not used to it featuring in my working day. For the first time, I question why. And for the first time, I admit to myself that I need to be taken seriously. How hair affects that, I don’t know, but a man once said to me while I was working for my father, “Well done, Amelia. So you’re not just a pretty face?” And I wondered if that’s how people saw me. Just a pretty face. From that day on six years ago, my hair was tied back. How ridiculous.
Or maybe not.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the FSA Annual Finance Conference.” She pauses, allowing a light applause. “My name is Kerry Gallow, and I will be your moderator throughout the event. I very much look forward to making the day as enjoyable and productive as possible.” She nods, smiling, her hands holding the sides of the podium. So fucking stiff. “Before I hand over to the legendary Garret Palmer—CEO of the FSA—to officially welcome you, we have a small adjustment to the day’s schedule in light of the last-minute change in venue. So please welcome to the stage the owner of the fine Arlington Hall, our venue this year, Mr. Jude Harrison.”
Turning her body to the stage entrance, she starts to clap, and everyone rises from their seats and joins her. Leighton leans across Gary, smiling at me. “Fair game,” he says, winking.
“Have at him,” I murmur, returning my attention to the stage. Such a dick.
“Lord have mercy,” Shelley whispers, just as my eyes land on the man walking onto the stage.
What the ever-loving fuck? My clapping hands slow, my smile fading, as Jude Harrison makes his entrance. “Oh my fucking God,” I whisper, jolting where I stand, instantly burning up.
“Right?” Shelley whispers out the corner of her mouth. “He’s got to be illegal.”
Jude Harrison. The owner of Arlington Hall.
Hey Jude.
You should definitely try Hey Jude.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I watch him, his long legs, his grey-suited, killer body. He reaches up and tucks a loose piece of his dark-blond hair behind his ear, his lazy eyes taking in the crowd.
Jesus, he’s . . .
Shit, he’s divine.
Coming to a stop at the podium, he clears his throat, waiting for the applause—and probably the awe—to die down. Everyone eventually takes their seats, and he starts to speak. “Good morning, I’m Jude Harrison,” he says, leaning slightly over the mic. His words, just a plain introduction, are like feathers tickling over my skin, making my shoulder blades pull in, along with my breath. I look down at my bare arm. Goose bumps. “What an honour it is to host this year’s conference at Arlington Hall.” He smirks, and I push my thighs together to suppress the developing throb. How? How can he do this to me? “Despite being an afterthought,” he adds seriously. The crowd laughs lightly, and I gaze around to see every woman in the room enchanted.
Jude Harrison.
Fucking hell.
“I can’t believe it,” I say to myself.
“What?” Gary asks.
“Nothing.”
“Arlington Hall is a special place,” Jude Harrison continues when the room quiets down again. “So please explore the grounds in between your hardcore business mingling. Enjoy the food, and when business concludes and you allow yourself some time to loosen up, maybe I can tempt you with one of our famous cocktails.”
I sit up straight. Loose?
Fucking hell. Does he know I’m here? I shift in my seat, getting hotter and more unsettled by the second. Then his eyes fall onto me and my insides explode. He doesn’t smile. Just holds me in place with his stare for a few moments. Speaking to me without speaking. Loosen up. At a work event? Never, although I’m seriously considering the merits of alcohol right now. My nerves are absolutely shredded.
“Some of the best deals are made over a relaxed drink,” he says, a definite suggestive edge to his tone. “I recommend the Hey Jude—inspired by me and created by my wonderful mother, the late Evelyn Harrison.” My fluster is momentarily forgotten when I see a wave of sadness pass across his otherworldly, handsome face. His eyes drop to the podium, and he seems to smile mildly to himself. Jude Harrison, you are less steely than you portray. Evelyn Harrison. His mum. The elegant, graceful beauty in the portrait. I can see it now. The twinkly eyes that straddle the line between blue and green. Almost like the sea. “She’s the lady behind Arlington Hall,” he goes on, clearing his throat. “I’m the lucky one who gets to showcase her achievements.” Jude Harrison seems to inhale and release slowly, as if merely talking about his mother chokes him up. “So on behalf of my family and I, enjoy your day. I’m sure you’ll agree by the end of your time here at Arlington Hall, it’s a really special place. I hope you remember it, whether that be for a deal you strike, the food you taste, the cocktails you try, or the acquaintances you make.” His eyes fall onto me again. “I’m at your disposal. So, please, make the most of me. I sincerely hope it’s not the last time I see you.”
As everyone stands and applauds, I remain in my seat, scared to even try to use my legs, my eyes nailed to the back of the guy who’s in front of me. When Shelley looks down at me in question, I somehow convince myself to rise.
And am forced to take a breath when Jude Harrison comes back into view.
He watches me in the crowd. My insides burn, my heart pounds. What is this madness?
He eventually nods and steps back from the podium, slipping his hands into his pockets. Out of sight. I sense a silent message. I don’t know what. He’ll keep them to himself?
I drop my gaze, needing a break from his intense stare. He must have known I’d be here. I told him I’m good with numbers. I told him what I do for a living. He would have seen the list of attendees. And he didn’t think to tell me who he is before striding out on that stage and giving me the shock of my life? He wanted to catch me off guard. Trap me? My phone dings, and I swallow as I read the message.
You look even more beautiful with your hair loose and wild.
His mobile is in his hand when I glance up, and he’s spinning it. Eyes never wavering from mine as he pushes his hair back with his spare hand.
Make time for me today.
It’s a demand. My lungs squeeze, air suddenly impossible to find. I can’t breathe. I need to breathe. I need air. “Excuse me,” I say to Gary, motioning past him, feeling panic rising fast.
“Everything okay?” he asks as I shuffle past him and Leighton, so fucking wobbly.
Shit, how can I explain my behaviour? I need a moment to gather myself. Regroup. Dig deep for the strength I’m going to need today to maintain my focus. “Yes, just a family emergency.” I hold up my phone. “I won’t be long.” I hurry up the aisle in my heels, catching Clark’s eye as I pass him a few rows back. His concern is instant. I hold up a hand, smiling, assuring him I’m fine. I’m not fine. I’ve been struggling to take my mind off Jude Harrison for over a week. His hands, his hair, his stunning face, his tall, lean physique. His chest. His jaw. His fucking eyes that drip sex. What he can do to me without even fucking touching me. And that’s when he’s out of sight. Now he’s here?
“No,” I say to myself as I make it outside the auditorium and rush through the glass tunnel. I realise quickly that I have no idea where the ladies’ bathrooms are—the only ones I’ve used here were in the changing rooms on the other side of the hotel in the spa. “Shit.” I spot Anouska.
“Miss Lazenby?” she says in question as I approach.
“I’m looking for the ladies’.”
“Just through there on the right.” She motions back through the glass tunnel.
“Thank you,” I call, hurrying back the way I came, but I come to an abrupt halt when Jude Harrison pushes his way out the double doors from the auditorium, looking a little ruffled.
And worried.
“Amelia,” he breathes, checking me up and down. I don’t do the same. Reminding myself of the splendour before me won’t help. Not that I need a reminder. Everything Jude Harrison is embedded in my mind. “What’s wrong?” He moves toward me, and I move back, making him still, the concern on his face maddening.
What’s wrong? Where does he want me to start? I could be here all fucking day, and I don’t have time. I walk away, heading for the ladies’, but stop when I hear his fancy dress shoes join the clicking of my heels on the marble.
I swing around. “Do not follow me,” I snap, backing up, keeping him in place with my eyes. His are full of uncertainty. I’m sure mine are full of annoyance.
I reach the door and push my way inside, not taking even a brief moment to appreciate the opulence surrounding me. I set my phone by the cream marble, resting my hands on the sink and closing my eyes. Jude Harrison. He owns Arlington Hall? All along? All-a-fucking-long?
My darkness is invaded by visions—all him. In the Library Bar, in his lovely suit, the spa in his black shorts, in the reflection of the mirror when he seduced my hands. “No, no, no.” I snap my eyes open and stare at myself in the mirror, silently ordering my brain to recalibrate. Today is important. So fucking important. How dare he steer me off course? How dare he! “Come on, Amelia,” I say to myself. “Remember why you’re here.”
The doors open, and I look past my reflection. Of course he didn’t listen to me.
Don’t wash your hands.
He finds me in the mirror, slowly releasing the door. “Amelia?”
“Jude,” I say, for the first time using his name. Because I know it now. Who he is, what he does.
“You’re pissed off,” he murmurs.
“I’m sorry, were you expecting something else from me?”
“Well, I didn’t expect this,” he says, remaining by the door. Wise.
I drop my head, looking down into the sink. What the hell did he expect? I’ve told him repeatedly to back off. It doesn’t matter that it’s taking everything out of me. It doesn’t matter that I’m incredibly attracted to him. It doesn’t matter that I desperately want to explore this mad chemistry. It doesn’t fucking matter that I’m obsessing about him. I’ve told him to leave me alone, and he isn’t.
Fuck.
“Your hair is down,” he says, as if that means more than I’ve simply changed the way I wear my hair. I flinch. Stiff.
“I’m wearing my hair down,” I confirm quietly. I don’t have the capacity right now to read into my own reasoning.
“Why can’t you look at me?”
“I can look at you. I just don’t want to.”
“Why?”
I bite down on my back teeth. “Stop it.”
“No.”
“Jude, please.”
“Don’t make me say it. Don’t make me spell out how attracted I am to you.”
I inhale, beginning to shake as he comes to a stop directly behind me. Close. I can feel myself falling under his spell. Mesmerised by him. The aura sucking me in. This is a man who could derail me. Not with a baby or marriage, but with plain, overwhelming, uncontrollable lust. He’s disarming, smart, successful, and devastatingly handsome. Denying my attraction, my desires, would be so fucking dumb. “I can’t do this today.” Not any day. I tense when his hand meets the small of my back. His touch burns my skin through my dress. He slides it up to my neck. “Jude, please.” I soften under his grip as he massages my nape. His front meets my back, his other hand sliding onto my stomach.
“What are you begging for, Amelia?” he asks, pulling me tighter to his body. He moves my hair away from my neck, breathes across my skin. Wildfire sweeps through my veins, my arse pushing back into his groin. “Tell me.”
I honestly don’t know what I’m begging for. Him? This? Space? Sense? Air?
Resistance?
But you can’t resist the irresistible, and Jude Harrison has proved time and again that he’s irresistible.
“Dinner,” he whispers, bombarding every sense I have.
I moan, letting the feeling take me. I’m a puppet again. Not in control of my reactions, my head and body bending to his will.
“Yes,” he whispers, encouraging me to say it too. My heavy breathing becomes heavier. My breasts ache. My thighs clench. “As soon as this event is done, you can skip the gala dinner and eat with me.”
Another moan. My God, he’s like magic on my body, drawing feelings that are new and fucking amazing.
More.
His mouth moves to my ear. My body rolls. I turn my face toward him, waiting for his lips to find mine. “You owe me a chance to get to know you more,” he says, nuzzling my cheek. “And you owe yourself a chance to explore this.”
I owe him.
Amelia, you owe me some kind of commitment.
I jolt, coming back into my body, and Jude looks up at me in the mirror, his hands holding me tighter on my neck and hip, as if he’s aware—and worried—I’m about to withdraw.
“I have to go,” I say.
His frown is colossal. “What?”
I wriggle free of his fierce grip, pulling at my dress, before moving to my hair, brushing through the ends, trying to make myself presentable. My hair wouldn’t be an issue if I had only fucking tied it up.
“Amelia, what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m here on business,” I say with grit. “I don’t believe you are included in that.” I walk to the door. “And I owe you nothing.”
“What the fuck?” Jude breathes. “Amelia!”
I haul the door open and quickly get yanked back into the ladies’. “What are you doing?” I yell, losing my shit. He’s already pulled me away from the conference during the keynote speaker. I’m distracted, my eye off the ball. I can’t allow that.
“You wanted me to kiss you just then. So what happened?”
“I don’t want to see you, not today, not tomorrow.”
He recoils, looking injured. It infuriates me even more.
“Do not contact me.” I pull the door open again and storm out, getting more and more worked up. How dare he. I owe him?
I owe him a slap. Nothing more. “Fucking hell,” I hiss, tugging at my dress, the material sticking to my clammy skin. Distress isn’t an emotion I’m used to. I don’t like it. Not at all.
By the time I make it back to my coworkers, I’ve missed fifteen minutes of the opening welcome speech. I apologise to Gary, assuring him everything is fine, and take my seat. But can I concentrate? No. And that only angers me more.