Chapter 12
I’m on the verge of tears, fighting to hold them back, when everyone is guided from the auditorium. It’s pure frustration. Disappointment, but only with myself. I remained caught between my focus and daydreams while highfliers of the financial world talked about their journeys, the changes they’ve seen over the years, and what’s to come. Jude Harrison poked at every corner of my mind constantly, disrupting my concentration. I’m not walking out of this conference feeling nearly enlightened enough. Not about matters of my career, at least. I am, however, enlightened, if I needed to be, that Jude Harrison is a man on a mission. And I want him.
But I shouldn’t have him.
After dinner I search for Tilda Spector, hoping to get my day back on track. A lady stands outside the Kent Suite, a tray of cocktails in hand. “No, thank you,” I say, smiling as I help myself to a water instead. I spot Tilda across the room and smile when she waves me over, forcing it to remain in place when I see Leighton’s already sniffed her out. My nemesis is a fucking leech. “Tilda,” I say, accepting her continental kiss.
“Amelia, how have you found today?”
I cringe, not because Leighton has just followed Tilda’s lead and kissed my cheeks too, but because I’m not nearly as furnished as I should be. So I simply say, “Excellent, you?” throwing it back at her.
“Tilda was just telling me she’s gearing up to retire,” Leighton says, his smile at risk of splitting his face as he sips his drink. He’s not held back on the temptation of a cocktail. No surprises there. I expect he made the most of the free wine on the tables at dinner too.
“Really?” I say, sounding genuinely staggered. So the rumours are true.
“Slowing down,” Tilda clarifies, giving Leighton a high brow. “I’m only fifty-two.”
“And looking ravishing as always.”
She laughs under her breath before taking my elbow and leading me away from him, much to his disappointment. Shame on me, I smirk over my shoulder at him.
“Come take a seat with me.” Tilda leads me to a table and pulls a chair out, encouraging me to sit. “Now talk to me.” She takes a seat. “What’s the future hold for Amelia Lazenby?”
Partnership, I hope. “I can only dream of the respect you hold in the financial world, Tilda.”
“It sounds like you’re on your way.”
My glass pauses at my lips. “It does?”
“Gary speaks very highly of you.”
“He does?” Why the hell is my voice squeaky?
She laughs. “Don’t be coy. You’ve raced up the ranks at LB&B. Nick must be feeling quite proud.”
I wince. No, actually, he tried to stunt my growth. You owe me some kind of commitment.
“Is he here?” she asks, glancing around. “I haven’t seen him.”
“I think someone else is here representing his company this year.” I made sure I kept my eye on the list of attendees. I sigh to myself, taking a breath and biting the bullet. It’s not that I don’t want people to know, but more I just don’t want to talk about it. And Nick’s clearly not telling people we’ve split up. Is he still hoping? “Nick and I aren’t together anymore.”
“Oh, well, that’s a surprise.” She withdraws. “What went wrong? No, sorry, that’s none of my business.”
“It’s fine. I guess we grew apart.”
Tilda hums, as if she’s suspicious of the true circumstances surrounding the demise of Nick and me. “What’s your client file looking like these days?”
This isn’t something I’d usually discuss with another adviser, but, well, this is Tilda Spector. If she’s offering an ear, you talk to it. “Healthy, actually, but more room for growth, obviously.”
She nods. “Always. I heard you recently took on a certain Mr. Neilson.”
“Oh yes, by pure default, mind you. A senior partner left LB&B, and his clients were disbanded between various advisers at the company while they look to replace him as partner. You know Mr. Neilson?”
“Oh, I know him.”
That doesn’t sound promising. “And?” I ask, tongue in cheek. “Want to share anything?”
Tilda leans in, laughing. “Between you and me, I heard his wife is taking him to the cleaners. I expect he’ll be cashing in, probably to try and hide his stash.”
“Shit,” I murmur, and quickly apologise for it, as I try to remember the value of his portfolio. “He only plays safe,” I muse, as it comes back to me. “A ton of ISAs.”
“Instant access,” Tilda confirms. “Thought you should be prepared.”
Brilliant. Not that there’s much I can do about it. I can’t stop a client from pulling in resources, no matter what they intend to do with the money. Like, in Mr. Neilson’s case, hide it. Which is pretty bloody impossible. If I’m asked for records, I’ll provide records. It’s then up to his soon-to-be ex-wife to prove he’s not blown the cash she thought he had. “Thanks for the insight.”
Tilda sips her drink, a coy smile stretching her lips. “Christ, have you tried this stuff?” She waves a waitress over and plucks one of the ribbed cocktail glasses off the tray. A whole palm leaf coats the inside, the white liquid cloudy. “Here.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t.” I hold up a hand, smiling.
“Look around, Amelia.” She glides a perfectly manicured hand around the room, and I look, seeing most people holding a glass containing a palm leaf. “Plus, this drink is like nothing you’ll have tasted before.”
“No, really.” I need my wits about me, and not just because this is a work function.
“Do you want some advice?” Tilda asks, leaning in.
“Okay,” I reply, nervous. If she tells me to loosen up, I’ll scream.
“Always stay a few drinks behind the rest.” She pushes the glass into my hand. “They’re all two deep already, not to mention the wine they’ve had with dinner. This is my first, as it is yours.”
I smile and take a sip. “Oh my fucking Christ,” I blurt as the liquid caresses its way down my throat. Tilda chuckles. “Sorry.”
“Not at all, this is a very refreshing Amelia.”
“It’s so good.” I’m getting vodka, lychee, a bit of pineapple.
“Tell me about it. He was right.”
“Who was?”
“The very impressive male who welcomed us to Arlington Hall. This is the Hey Jude.”
I look at the glass. “Oh.” And feel eyes on me immediately. Jude’s by the doors. And he looks furious. He’s definitely not licking his wounds. No. He’s preparing for battle. Fuck.
I place the glass down—a further rejection—as Jude watches, and get back to Tilda. “So, you’re winding down?”
She laughs, relaxing back. “Yes, I’ve done my time, earnt my stripes. I have other things I want to pursue, and now it would seem the vultures are out to circle the meat on offer.”
Oh God, I hope she doesn’t see me as one of those vultures. “I’m sure.” I smile tightly.
“You’re not a vulture, Amelia. That’s why I like you. Have you ever considered a mentor?” she asks. “I don’t mean someone to tell you how to do business, but more how to develop in your career. You’ve clearly got what it takes. I guess what I’m saying is personal growth is as important as actually winning business and keeping it. What are your boundaries, your principles, your goals for your clients, your own personal goals? That kind of thing. Give me one of your goals.”
I’m struggling to concentrate with Jude’s burning gaze on me. “I want to make partner.”
“Why?” she fires back. “What are you trying to prove and to who?”
I bite my lip. “I want to prove to myself that I’ve got what it takes. That my decision to pass on other opportunities was worth it.”
She smiles knowingly. Tilda knows my father. Tilda knows everyone. “Don’t waste time trying to prove others right. You’re the head of your own personal boardroom, Amelia. Choose who you invite into that room carefully.” She stands, and my gaze rises with her. “It’s been a pleasure chatting with you.”
“And you, Tilda.”
She walks away, and despite not having achieved what I set out to, I feel like I’ve taken so much from that conversation. And while it makes me happy, it also saddens me that my father has never encouraged me or offered such valuable advice.
I sigh and look at the cocktail on the table before me. I hate that it was delicious. Delicious like the man it’s founded on. And I hate that I desperately want another taste. I chew the edge of my lip, my eyes following the source of heat. He hasn’t moved, not his body or his eyes, his stance wide, his hands in his pockets.
“So, what’s the lowdown?” Leighton drops into the seat Tilda just vacated and leans in toward me, his elbows resting on his knees, totally invading my personal space.
I lean back and narrow one eye. “You want me to relay the conversation I just had with Tilda Spector?”
“Sure, we’re friends, aren’t we?” He cocks a smile I’m sure many women would find appealing. Unfortunately for Leighton, I know him.
“Friends?” I ask.
He pouts, coming that little bit closer. “Or more, if that’s what you’re looking for. I heard you’ve recently become single.”
I laugh under my breath. He would totally fuck his way to the top. Do whatever it takes. Screw people over, tread all over them. Yes, you have to be ruthless, but something Tilda just said has resonated. You’re the head of your own personal boardroom, Amelia. Choose who you invite into that room carefully.
“More?” I ask, moving in closer to Leighton, making sure my smile is demure. I’m not Leighton’s type. I have a brain, for a start, which is why I know not to go anywhere near him, not in my personal life or my business life. I just have to endure him at work until I no longer have to endure him.
His eyes fall to my lips. “More,” he whispers. “I’m sure there’s a room available at this swanky place.”
He makes me sick. But I don’t have the chance to tell him to fuck off. He’s suddenly moving back rapidly, falling to his arse, his drink going everywhere. I gasp, seeing his chair clatter across the floor. And then a body appears in front of me, and my gaze climbs the length of it until I’m staring into a raging pair of dark-teal eyes. His jaw ticks as he holds me in my chair with a lethal glare.
It’s another side to Jude Harrison.
“What the fuck?” Leighton yells, rolling around like a beetle on his back.
“My apologies,” Jude grates, slowly turning that stare onto him. “My foot caught the leg of your chair.” He offers a hand. “Let me help you up.” He sounds like he’s ready to slaughter Leighton, not help him up.
Leighton accepts, and Jude hauls him to his feet as one side of Leighton’s body seems to shrink. He laughs nervously. “No problem,” he squeaks. Is he in pain? Then he hisses, looking at Jude’s hand wrapped around his.
Jude releases and reveals a limp limb that’s had all the life and blood squeezed out of it. What the hell does he think he’s doing? I stand, smoothing down the front of my dress, and Jude moves in close, his front to mine, just off centre. My eyes are on his shoulder. His head is held high, his hands restrained in his trouser pockets.
“Don’t fucking rub it in my face, Amelia.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He turns to Leighton. “Let me get you another drink.”
“Sure. And a room for the night would be great.” Leighton grins, and, my God, I could smash it off his face. By the tensing and rising of Jude’s shoulders, he feels the same. I’m about to tell Jude it’s not what he thinks. But ... do I owe him that?
“A room,” Jude muses, as Leighton moves in and slaps him on the shoulder of his expensive three-piece.
“Tell me about your long-term financial plan,” he says.
I shake my head to myself and get out of there, heading outside to get some air. Today has been a disaster. I find myself on a patio full of white iron tables and chairs. Heading for the far table, I lower to the green cushion and dial Abbie. “You better get Charley on the line,” I say, resting back, exhausted.
“Oh shit,” she breathes. “What’s happened?”
“He’s here. At Arlington Hall,” I say.
“Him?”
“His name’s Jude Harrison. He owns this place.”
“Oh my God.”
“I’ve achieved nothing at this conference except sweating and trying to breathe so I don’t have a fucking heart attack.” I go to smooth my hair back and realise it’s down. Damn it. I hold my phone to my ear and gather it into a ponytail. It’s casual, but it’s off my face, the strands not sticking to my damp, sticky cheeks. “He gave an opening speech. I read between the lines. Then he found me in the ladies’ and—”
“You had hand sex again?”
“No.” I roll my eyes, flopping back in my chair. “He got close, I’m sure we were heading for ... I don’t know, but I found my senses and left. Then he got all passive aggressive over a male colleague.” Taking a breath, I rub my temple. “Abbie, he’s a force I’m not sure I can handle.”
“You can handle anything,” she says gently. “You are literally the strongest woman I know.”
I smile, but it’s small and it’s an effort. “I don’t feel very strong right now.” Every second I’m in Jude Harrison’s orbit, whether that be physically or just on the phone, a little bit more strength crumbles away.
“That’s the power of attraction.”
“I’ve no room in my life for a man. I’ve literally just kicked one out.”
“Nick’s expectations were unreasonable.”
“And Jude Harrison’s aren’t?” I look up when a waiter appears beside me. “I’m okay, thank you.”
He smiles and picks a glass of Hey Jude up off his tray and lowers it. “Courtesy of Mr. Harrison.”
I laugh sardonically.
“What?” Abbie asks.
“He’s just sent me a cocktail. The Hey Jude. I think it’s a peace offering.”
“I can’t believe he owns Arlington Hall.”
“We didn’t get Charley on the call.”
“You know what Charley will say. Besides, she’s at Lloyd’s parents’ house for dinner. I’m on my way to Waitrose. Chablis, Cheese, and Bridget?”
Our crisis pack. “Yeah,” I breathe, because this definitely feels like a crisis. “I’ll be back soon.”
I hang up and study the glass before me for a few moments, knowing he’ll be watching me. So I get up and head back inside, leaving the drink untouched on the table.
“There you are,” Clark says, dancing over. “We’re going to Evelyn’s. You have to come.”
“Evelyn’s?”
“It’s the nightclub on the grounds. Everyone’s heading there for drinks.”
I don’t want to appreciate the nod to his mother. “Do you have a pass?” I ask, thinking Rachel will not love my brother rocking up late totally bombed. He’s a terrible drunk. Slurry, wobbly, clingy, and he feels the need to be virtually licking people’s earlobes when he’s talking to them.
“I’ve cleared it with the boss. Come on, sis, live on the edge.” He claps his hands and does some obscene dance as he backs away. He’s such a goofball. Like an excitable child on Christmas Eve.
“What about your car?” I call.
“Rach said she’d bring me over tomorrow after work to get it.”
“I’m going to pass.” I wave a hand flippantly. I’m looking forward to a wine and cheese coma with Abbie. And off-loading my woes. “I’ll get the bus back.”
“Oh, we’ve put the transport back a few hours,” Shelley says, dancing past, joining the crowd heading through the glass tunnel to Evelyn’s. “Majority vote, I’m afraid. Soz.”
My shoulders drop. “I’ll get a train.”
“Oh, come on, Amelia,” she yells back. “Live on the edge.”
Easy for everyone else to say. I sense it’s going to be really fucking painful if I fall off that edge.
“A club?” I motion down my body. “Dressed like this?”
“Look around you,” Shelley sings, laughing. “You’re surrounded by suits and pencil skirts.”
“I’m wearing a dress,” I grumble. “It’s Victoria Beckham,” I add, like that sets me apart from the others. Now they are stiff. I huff to myself. Jesus Christ, I haven’t been to a club since I went to Ibiza after we graduated. That was a great trip. None of us wanted to come home and resume adulting.
Glancing around me, I watch every guest from the conference heading eagerly in the direction of freedom from their day jobs. Relief. Hair-down time. There will undoubtedly be a pile of sore heads and regrets in the morning. Someone will end up in the restrooms with someone they shouldn’t. It’s never been for me, and it shouldn’t be now. Especially since it’s Jude Harrison’s club.
I check the time, then open my Uber app to see how far away the nearest car is to get me to the train station. “No available cars?” I blurt, baulking at my screen. I look up and around, following my feet to the reception area and finding Anouska passing through to the Library Bar. “Hey, is there a taxi firm I can call to take me to the station? Uber has nothing available in the area.” I laugh like, How crazy is that?
She grimaces. “Yes, we’re in the sticks here, you have to order Ubers well in advance, and the nearest taxi firm is in Oxford. Do you want me to call?”
“Would you mind?”
“Sure.” A few clicks on the screen of her mobile and she starts talking, telling them where we are and where I’m going. She frowns. Thinks. Covers the receiver. “Two hours.”
“Two?”
She nods, eyes a little wide.
“How on earth do guests come and go if they don’t drive?”
“Chauffeur. Either theirs or ours. And we have the helicopter pad too.”
“Of course.” I exhale, exasperated, and think. “Clark,” I breathe. I’ll use his car. “Thanks for trying,” I call, dialling my brother as I wander away. Of course, he doesn’t answer, and I growl my frustration as I come to a stop at the entrance to the Library Bar, seeing people dotted around, drinking, chatting quietly. Soft, relaxing jazz plays in the background. I breathe in and let my eyes drift to the end of the bar, remembering every detail of the moment I first set eyes on Jude Harrison. Except then, he was your not-so-average businessman. How wrong I’d been. How fucked I didn’t know I was.
I head for Evelyn’s, passing through the glass tunnel and breaking out into the chilly nighttime air, following the illuminated gravel path through the pergolas draped in white clematis until I reach the glass building on the other side of the paddocks. The lights from inside shine out, and when I enter, I just have to take a moment to appreciate the space. This isn’t a nightclub—not like I know nightclubs. This is a cocktail bar on steroids, with a DJ and velvet club chairs that no man or woman has ever thrown up on. The bar is oval-shaped, set dead centre, stools lining the entire circumference, and tubes suspended from the high ceiling cast a hazy light on the white stone surface of the bar.
I search the clusters of people, scan the bar, the seating areas. No Clark. “Where are you?” I say to myself as “Silence” by Delerium starts playing, and a swarm of mid-forties people flock to the dance floor. I smile, seeing them transform one by one into their lost clubbing selves.
Stepping out on the terrace, I spy my brother smoking. “You haven’t smoked for two years,” I say, approaching with a scornful look.
“Shhh,” he slurs, holding the B&H upright to his lips. “Don’t tell Rachel.”
My God, he’s already slurring. “Can I take your car?”
“Huh?”
“Your car. Can I drive myself home in it? Apparently, taxis don’t exist around here, and you have to prebook an Uber.”
“Amelia, dear older sister, do you have a car?”
“You know I don’t have a car.”
Clark takes a hit of nicotine and inhales it deeply, dropping his head back and blowing the smoke into the air, sparing me. “I do know, which is how I know you don’t have any insurance.”
“I can’t drive on your insurance?”
“No. And I still wouldn’t let you, even if you had your own insurance, because you’d only be covered for fire and theft, so if some idiot drove into my shiny new Range Rover, I’d be rather fucked off.”
I pout. “You don’t trust me.”
He laughs. “I trust you with my life. You’re the most reliable, sensible woman I know. It’s the other road users I don’t trust.”
“Please?” I beg.
“The answer is no.”
Damn it, he’s obviously not that drunk. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Have some bloody fun, Amelia.” He takes one last puff and stubs out his cigarette, hooking an arm around my neck. “Why’d you want to leave so bad?”
“I don’t.”
“Come on, let your little brother buy you a drink.” Pushing his lips to my cheek, he smothers me.
“Fine.” It’s not like I have a choice. I quickly text Abbie to let her know I’m stranded. “I’ll have a Chablis.”
Clark leads me back inside, where the frenzy on the dance floor continues, the track still pumping. I find myself scanning constantly, every muscle tense. Clark says something. I can’t hear him, but when he pats one of the stools at the bar, I get it. I slip onto the green cushioned seat, the backrest shaped like a shell, the legs gold. Beautiful bottles of expensive liquor and fancy glasses decorate the middle of the oval.
“I saw you talking to Spector earlier.” Clark’s half yelling, half slurring, waggling his eyebrows. “Want to share?”
“There’s nothing to share,” I reply, frowning. Is the music getting louder? “Everyone suspected she’s retiring, and now it’s confirmed she’s slowing down.”
“So what did she say?” he shouts back.
“She told me to consider a mentor.”
“I’ll mentor you.”
I try not to appear offended. “Why, thank you,” I say on a smile he won’t misread. “But fuck off.”
Clark laughs and pushes my wine toward me, leaning on the bar. I see his mouth move but can’t hear him.
“What?” I ask, moving closer.
“I said, I’m only saying this to you because I’m half-drunk!”
“Only half?”
“Nick’s the most boring bloke I’ve ever met.”
I laugh into my glass. “You’re telling me now?”
“What?” he yells.
“I said”—Jesus, I can’t hear myself think. That might be a good thing—“you’re telling me now?”
“You’re better than that. He made you ... I don’t know. Boring too.”
“Jesus, Clark.”
“Listen to me a minute,” he shouts, coming even closer to my ear. “He made you think you weren’t good enough at what you do. So you became better than you already were, and his plan backfired.”
“Are you saying he only ever wanted me for my baby-making abilities?”
“’Course not. You’re a beautiful woman, Amelia. I’m still fighting off all my mates, which, by the way, I’d hap-hap-happily set you up with.” He gives me a serious look, and I smile at his eyes wandering slightly.
“All of them?”
Clark snorts, disgusted. “I’m sure you’ve noticed ... that Nick only decided ... he wanted marriage and babies when you told him you wanted ... to go for partner at LB&B.”
I still for a moment. Yes, actually, I did notice that. Perhaps too late, but I’ve definitely considered it.
“What I’m saying is,” Clark slurs on, his volume just high enough for me to hear. “Nick got more than he bargained for, and he’s not confident or strong enough to be with a woman who might overtake him on the career ladder. Fuck, you’re already close.”
“So that’s your conclusion?”
“My conclusion is, my sister needs a cerrrr ... tain type of man, and N-Nick ain’t it.” He holds up his glass, and I chink mine with his in toast.
“I don’t need any man right now, but I hear you.”
“Good.” He leans forward. “Knock one on my cheek.”
I plant a kiss where ordered, rolling my eyes to myself. My brother forgetting who’s eldest is a regular problem. “Now, please, let that hair back down and have some fun. You can be driven and spon-spon-taneous at the same time, you know?”
I laugh, but it dries up when I see Jude across the club heading this way, looking savagely angry. And I realise.
“Oh no.”
“What?” Clark yells, coming closer again.
“Please, please, please.” I slip off my stool and set my glass down, ready to block Jude’s path to my brother, but I’m too slow. He’s got Clark bent backwards over the bar in a heartbeat, and poor Clark looks more than stunned as Jude growls in his face. I can’t believe this. “What are you doing?” I hiss, shoving Jude back, incensed, as he heaves before me and rakes a hand through his mussed hair.
“You think that’s okay?” His yells blend with the loud music. “Flaunting yourself with any man to get a rise out of me?” Stepping into me, he leans over my shorter frame, his face up close to mine. “Well, here I fucking am, Amelia, giving you a fucking rise.”
I stare at him, stunned, and without warning to me or Jude, my hand flies out and slaps him clean across the face. He thinks I’d play those games? I’m a fucking woman, not a drama-thriving little girl.
Jude blinks, shocked, and I retract my hand, the sting real. Shit.
I look back at an alarmed Clark. Does he think a man like this will suit me? “Doesn’t seem like you need me to step in and be all brotherly,” he yells, glancing at my burning hand.
“Clark,” I say, my voice unstoppably wobbly, “meet Jude Harrison.”
Jude’s lips part as realization finds him. “Shit,” he mouths. “Fuck, Amelia, I—”
I don’t want his apology. I turn and give Clark a kiss. “I’ll call you.” And push past Jude, leaving. I don’t know where I’m going or how the hell I’m going to get there, but I’m suffocating. I’ll walk. Get some air.
“Amelia, wait,” Jude yells.
I look back and see him straightening Clark out, patting down his suit as he keeps a frantic eye on me retreating. My pace increases.
And he comes after me. I’m not surprised.
I thrust the doors onto the terrace open and hurry through the crowd of smokers, finding the path, my heels crunching across the stones as I rush beneath the pergolas.
“Amelia!”
His shoes join the sounds of mine. He’s running. Fuck. I stop and pull off my heels, and immediately regret it when sharp stones bite into my bare feet. “Shit, shit, shit.” My plan to escape faster fails. I hiss and shout as I step across the gravel.
“Amelia, for fuck’s sake.”
Do not let him get to me. I look back, my heart sinking when I see him sprinting. Closer, closer, closer.
“Stop!” I yell, swinging around, the force making my hair tie fly out. God, how many people saw that happen in there? How will I explain this, especially to Clark?
Jude skids to a stop, breathless too, but at least his fucking feet won’t be cut to shreds. Furious, I march back to him, enduring the pain, and slam my palm into his hard chest, thrusting him back. He has a whole foot over me as I look up at him.
“This has to stop now.” I find my breath, or at least try to. Around Jude Harrison, that seems impossible. Calm. Give me calm! “No more, Jude.” I walk away, gritting my teeth to endure the pain in my feet. And oddly, a pain somewhere unexpected.
In my fucking chest.
What the hell is that?
I make it to the door and wrench it open, and he catches it before it closes, doing the exact opposite of what I’ve asked, as per usual. He follows me through the glass tunnel, past reception, through the spa area, and into the changing rooms. I pretend he’s not there. It’s the only way. If fucking impossible. I pull my bag out of a locker, throw it onto my shoulder, and leave again, pushing past him, ignoring the surge of electricity that flies through my body each time I touch him. It’s anger.
Not chemistry.
But I don’t make it out the door. He pulls me back, puts me in front of him, takes my bag from my shoulder, and throws it to the floor.
“You think I’m playing a game?” he asks tightly.
I look up into his eyes.
And drown.
Everything inside tingles with want. With need. I’ve never known desire like this. I’ve never wanted something so badly. I’m trying so hard to push back these unanticipated feelings and failing at every turn.
His lips part, his eyes smoke.
My thighs clench. My breasts become achy.
“Why are you making this so fucking difficult?” he asks.
I inhale.
Swallow.
Shake my head.
“Amelia,” he whispers, coming closer. “Give in to it.”
I look down, searching my head for words to speak and instructions to follow. It scares me so much, my lack of sense around him. My powerlessness. My inability to do the sensible thing. How he consumes my head, how my body responds to him.
“No,” I whisper.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want this.”
“Bullshit.”
“I don’t want this,” I repeat. “I don’t want this, I don’t want this.”
“Bull-fucking-shit, Amelia!”
My lack of control fails me again. Fatal. I look up at him, our breathlessness loud. My mind is screaming conflicting things at me.
Kiss him.
Don’t!
Walk away!
But again, I have never felt a craving so acute. Like if I don’t kiss him, I’ll die here and now.
Jude stares at me, waiting, his eyes on the greener side of teal, something swirling in their depths. “Just let it happen,” he whispers.
Let it happen.
Because this chemistry and attraction is stronger than me.
“Let it happen,” he breathes, his lips moving slowly.
I lose my internal battle and move into his body, pulling his mouth down to mine, our lips colliding on a whimper of pleasure and desperation. He catches me around the waist and staggers back, hitting the wall with force. “Fuck,” he gasps, opening up to me instantly, his tongue meeting mine, soft and hot. My kiss is forceful, full of frustration, and at the same time, full of relief. Desire travels through me like wildfire, reaching between my legs. My body starts to throb. He tastes unbelievable. Feels incredible. His scent engulfs me—oud and musk, and my mind blanks. Nothing exists, only need. A need I’m terrified is so strong, my attraction so potent, I might not ever quench it. And this kiss is only affirming what I’ve been afraid of.
Perfection.
One hand on his cheek, the other on his neck, I pull him closer, and he moans, moving his hands from my hair, his shoulders hunching as he holds my face and kisses me like every woman should be kissed, with passion and purpose. Like they’re owned.
Then he rolls us so it’s me now pinned to the wall, the full length of his hard body pressing into mine, his mouth and tongue relentless.
Our first kiss. It’s fuelled by anger. It’s fucking electric. Everything I never allowed myself to believe it would be. Consuming. Mind-blanking.
Another step over the line into dangerous territory.
Proof that Jude Harrison fucks with my sensibility. Makes the intelligent part of me malfunction.
No!
I rip my lips away from his and push my palms into his chest, forcing him back. Heaving. “There,” I gasp, scrambling for my sense. “You’ve got what you wanted.”
His eyes widen in disbelief, and he steps back and laughs, roughly wiping his wet mouth. “Are you fucking with me?”
“I’m n—”
He comes back at me, kissing me hard, owning me, and I’m a puppet again, succumbing to the power. Strong, large hands reach for the backs of my thighs, and he hauls me up his tall body. A loud rip sounds—my dress, but it doesn’t stop me. Not this time.
“You drive me fucking insane,” he growls, sweeping his tongue through my mouth, biting my lip, before plunging deeply again. My arms naturally circle his shoulders, pulling him closer, my mouth accepting his.
I can’t stop!
“Good?” he asks, moving his mouth onto my neck, sucking and biting.
My head drops back, my blurry vision on the ceiling as he hums across my skin, mixing licks with his bites, kisses with his sucks.
“Yes,” I breathe. “So good.”
His mouth suddenly stills. He takes a deep breath and slowly peels his body away, setting me on my feet. Confused, I look at him as he sweeps his hair back.
“Thank you for proving what I fucking knew.” He slams his mouth on mine again, a fucked-up kind of encore, kissing me hard but chastely. “I dare you to say no when I ask you to have dinner with me again,” he says quietly, his voice strong and deep. He holds my jaw, making sure he keeps my eyes. “I fucking dare you, Amelia.” Then he releases me, turns, and walks out.
And I stand there in silent disbelief, watching the door close behind him, every nerve ending I have screaming for his touch. His mouth. The fire, the electricity.
The freedom from thinking.
Of being in control.
I face the mirror and stare at myself. Flushed cheeks. Wild eyes. My mind is racing, trying to wrap around what’s just happened. I can still feel his lips on mine. “Shit.” I wedge my hands into the sink and breathe. “Shit, shit, shit.”
What was that?
Pulling my dress into place, I take a few moments to compose myself before hauling the door open and looking for him, wanting an explanation.
Not that I need one. I know what just happened.
Just like he said, he proved what we both know. What I’m fucking stumped about is why he didn’t take it further when I was obviously so willing. After everything, the innuendos, the chance meetings, the chemistry, the chase.
Why didn’t he take me?
I let out a little puff of laughter.
He’s in control. Jude Harrison is a man who wants control.
But it’s up to me if I give it to him.
I retrieve my phone, wincing at the missed calls from Clark, and stuff my bag into the locker again before walking back through to the lobby. There’s no sign of Jude. The Library Bar. No Jude. I peek down at my dress, cursing at the split that’s a few inches higher up my leg than it should be. “Shit.”
I’m a mess as I walk back to Evelyn’s, my eyes darting, looking for him. He’s nowhere.
“Where the h-h-hell have you been?” Clark slurs when I find him on the terrace smoking, his phone in his hand. He looks me up and down.
“I was using the ladies’.” I grab his drink off the tall bar table and swig it, exhaling. Shaking.
“What was that?” he asks, swaying. He’s on his way to complete obliteration. “You and ... what’s his name?”
“Jude Harrison.” I scratch through my mind, searching for any tale I can spin. “You parked in his parking space.”
“What?” Clark rocks back on his heels, his drunken face a picture of confusion.
Jesus Christ. “You parked in the space reserved for him.” I huff and cringe at the same time, my eyes darting still.
“A bit of an overreaction, wasn’t it?” Giving up on standing, Clark drops his arse to a stool. “I parked where I was told to.” He gets up again. “The lamppost in the green suit guided me to that specific space,” he goes on, indignant. “We should make a complaint.”
“Wait,” I blurt as he starts to wobble off. “I already did.” Fucking hell, this is painful. “Don’t worry, enjoy your freedom.” I put his drink back in his hand and smile, hoping it’s convincing. “Big sister fixed it.”
He grins, all boyish, and totally my baby brother. “That slap was a stinger.” Then he stumbles off toward the dance floor.
And I drop to a chair and take a breath.
I walk through the door at just gone midnight after hanging around waiting for everyone to finish partying at Evelyn’s. Jude was nowhere to be seen. It was a slow torture, and worse, I wanted him to come back to me. I wanted him to find me. If that was his whole point—to make me crave him more—he succeeded. Although I’m not sure how I could possibly crave him more. I can’t stop thinking about him. About our kiss. The feelings, his scent, my irrepressible and unhealthy craving for him. It’s all knocked me for six, and I’m at a loss for how to deal with it.
Abbie’s on the couch in her robe, flicking through the channels on the TV. She looks up at me, smiling. “I didn’t want to go to bed until I knew you were ho—” Her face falls, and she jumps up from the couch, tossing the remote control aside. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Tiredness? Stress? Pressure?
All?
I let out a pathetic whimper and drop my bag to the floor, covering my face. She’s with me in a heartbeat, her arms around me, and I need it.
“Amelia?” she says, so many questions in her voice.
“We kissed, and then he left. He just fucking left, like he’d proven his point.” I look at Abbie, finding her eyes are even wider. “What kind of fucked-up bastard is he?”
“And did he prove his point?” she asks quietly.
“Yes. Yes, he proved it.” I bury my face in my hands again. “He dared me to say no to him the next time he asks me to have dinner with him. Oh my God, Abbie, I gave him exactly what he wanted.” I’m such a fucking idiot.
I feel her arm come around my shoulders. “Don’t you think it was kind of inevitable?”
“Probably,” I murmur. “I just ... I don’t know. I get the feeling there’s more to him than I’m seeing.”
“You mean a multimillion-pound estate in Oxfordshire?” she quips, and I laugh over a pathetic snivel as she leads me to the couch and sits us down.
“And the temper,” I add. “After he kicked away a colleague’s chair, he had Clark up against a bar.” My brother seemed drunk enough to swallow my pile of bullshit. I hope. For fuck’s sake.
“But you still let him kiss you.”
I wilt, sheepish, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “Actually, I kissed him . The first time, anyway.” I pout, pointing to the split in my dress that’s now reaching my thigh. “He broke my dress.”
“Shit, I love this dress.”
“I know,” I grumble, tugging at the material, hoping a seamstress will be able to fix it. “So how was your night? I’m sorry I didn’t make it for our cheese coma.”
Abbie chuckles, falling into my side, and cuddles me. “Utterly boring compared to yours, by the sounds of things.” We both exhale collectively and collapse against the back of the couch together. “Go to bed. You’ll be thinking more clearly in the morning.”
“Okay,” I say quietly, staring into space.
I dare you to say no when I ask you to have dinner with me again. I fucking dare you, Amelia.
Thinking clearly?
That’s proved impossible around Jude Harrison.