Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Amy
I’m applying another coat of red lipstick at my dressing table mirror when Katie knocks on my bedroom door. “Come in,” I call, and she wanders into the room. Her gaze lands on my sexy black dress hanging on the wardrobe door handle. She turns to me and smirks.
“What?” I say, feigning ignorance.
“You’re going to a lot of trouble to get ready for dinner with a man you hate.” Her two canine companions yap at her feet in agreement. They’re a byproduct of her time in Scotland, and she brought them home.
I tsk through my teeth, and my focus returns to the mirror. Sitting in only my black lace underwear, I finish applying my makeup, then re-brush my straightened hair until every strand lies obedient.
She chuckles. I ignore her, standing and stepping past her to lift the dress from its hanger. I wriggle into it; the stretchy material gives way to my muscles before snapping back hard against them.
“Where’s he taking you?” she asks.
“The new Thai restaurant on Oxford St. The table’s booked for eight,” I tell her. “It’s a business dinner. Why else?” She raises her eyebrow; a knowing smile plays on her lips. She knows me too well. My mouth says business; my gut rolls its eyes.
“To get in your pants,” she says, and I laugh.
“Katie, the man hates me. There’s no way that’s on his agenda. He’s just trying to butter me up so I’ll give in and sell.”
“And the reason you’re wearing your sexiest dress and applying hooker’s lipstick is?”
I glare at her, then return to looking for my shoes. Eventually, I find my highest black heels, nestled at the back of my wardrobe.
“Make that slut shoes too,” she adds.
“I want to cocktease him.” I say it like a dare to my reflection.
We lock eyes for a brief time as she looks at me.
“Ivan Harley is a player. I’ve heard everything about him. He’s shagged his way through numerous women in the industry, then left them broken-hearted. I want to give him a taste of his own medicine.”
“And you think it’s up to you to teach him that lesson? If he is what you say he is, is that not a dangerous game?”
“Why not? Why should men be able to take what they want and discard you when you’re no longer necessary?” I say, my voice breaking slightly with emotion.
“He’s not Terry, Amz.” My friend steps toward me and places her hands on my shoulders.
“Don’t go into this tonight with the intention of hurting anyone.
Go tonight because you want to be there and have a good time.
” She pauses. “I don’t believe for one moment you would have accepted this invitation if you weren’t at least curious. ”
I shrug. She can think what she likes.
I peek at my watch for the umpteenth time: 7:24 p.m. He should be here in six minutes. If he doesn’t show up, I have a bottle of wine in the fridge chilling and a huge bar of chocolate in the cupboard. Perhaps this was his power play, a prank where making me care lets him win.
Katie is pacing our living room; she keeps looking out of the window for his car to arrive. We only moved into our new apartment in Covent Garden a few weeks ago. Katie’s writing career is blossoming, and she’s moved us in here on the understanding that I’ll be here when she must travel for work.
I’m sitting on the sofa, my slick palms pressed together. I haven’t been out with a man other than my ex-husband in twenty years. With my ribs tense, my nerves settle deep within. This suddenly feels like a bad idea.
“He’s here!” Katie squeals, clapping her hands together. Her voice too loud in the tiny room. “Oh fuck, look at his car.”
I walk over and look out of the window to find a long, sleek machine sitting outside, blocking the street. It’s all black and glints in the setting sun. I watch Ivan climb out of the driver’s side, and he glances up toward my building. Hoping to go unnoticed, I duck behind the curtain.
A small blue car drives up behind it, blaring its horn at the obstruction. Ivan signals five minutes with his hand to the inconvenienced driver, who reverses back down the street. Katie and I peek out from behind the curtains and watch him walk up the path to our front door.
“You’re fucked,” Katie says. “He’s a sex god. I’m telling you now, he’ll only have to breathe on you, and you’ll be flat on your back, legs spread.”
I roll my eyes at my crazy friend.
“Amy, look at him. He’s gorgeous. If you don’t ride that, I’ll hunt him down and mount up myself.”
“You’re such a crude bitch,” I mutter, and she grins. “Doubt Mr. American Moneybags would be too pleased with that suggestion.”
“A girl can dream,” she says. “Maybe he’d be up for a threesome.”
“You always have to lower the tone,” I say, pretending to be disgusted but failing miserably.
Our entry system buzzer sounds, and I walk over to let him in. Within seconds, there is a knock at the door. Katie practically pushes me out of the way to answer it. She swings the door open wide, and Ivan moves into the room.
He’s huge, bigger than I remember. The room abruptly becomes more confined, the heat intensifies, and a feeling of intrusion fills the air. Blazing blue eyes focus on me, and he flashes me a dark smile.
Something settles low in my belly. A fire I’ve not felt in a long time.
“Good evening, Amy,” he says, as if tasting my name. “Are you ready to go?” The black shirt he’s wearing bulges slightly at the seams, and dark jeans hug his legs, sitting snugly around his crotch. My breathing hitches, the room narrowing further—only to him. Katie’s right, I’m fucked.
“Yes,” I say, attempting to use my most confident tone. I look at my friend still holding the door open, her jaw practically on the floor. “I’ll see you later, Katie,” I say as I walk past her, snapping her from her trance.
“Yes, have a good night,” she replies. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Ivan snakes his arm around my waist and leads me from the apartment, his palm warm at the small of my back. A light touch that feels like a claim.
We descend the stairs, then step out into the warm summer night. His hand remains on my back, strong and steady as we walk toward the car. I sneak a look back at my apartment to see my friend standing in the window, grinning.
She mouths fuck him through the glass. I chuckle at my reckless sidekick. No chance.
We’ve made it from the apartment to the car without a word being exchanged. He opens the passenger door, and I slide in, then he closes it behind me. He gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine by pressing a button on the dashboard. The car purrs beneath us.
“Nice car,” I mumble. “You’re a bit of an asshole blocking the road, though.”
His eyes rise, and he smirks. “You’re not the first woman to point that out,” he says.
“But I’d rather be called names than have my wing mirror removed by an idiot that can’t drive up a narrow street.
” He pauses, taking a breath. The air smells of dark cedar and spice, with an edge of male. “You look lovely tonight.”
I flush at his words, heat slithering up my throat. “Thank you. Have you been to this restaurant before?” I ask, changing the subject.
“No, it only opened a few weeks ago. I’ve heard good things, though.”
We cruise through the city streets, arriving within twenty minutes.
Ivan looks so calm and confident navigating London traffic.
Other vehicles appear to move out of his way as if by magic.
I hate driving in the city; it stresses me out.
Normally, even being a passenger feels like a chore, but tonight I feel safe. He’s so in control.
We stop in front of the restaurant, Dancing Thaiger.
The full frontage is glass with an ornate orange sign displaying the name.
I can see straight into the colorful space.
A man approaches us dressed all in black and opens my door, offering me his hand as I step out onto the pavement. Ivan joins me within moments.
“Good evening, Mr. Harley,” the man says, holding out his palm. Ivan drops the keys into it. “Just message me, sir, when you want the car brought back around.”
“Thank you, David,” he replies, obviously reading the man’s name badge, then he turns to me. “Shall we?” He gestures toward the restaurant, and we walk in together.
Inside, every wall is decorated with elaborate paintings of Thailand.
Some depict the streets of Bangkok, others the stunning beaches of Pa Tong.
Lanterns hang from the ceiling, each one illuminated with soft light.
Dozens of glass tables and chairs are scattered around the room, laid with exquisite crockery which glints under the lights.
“Wow,” I murmur, almost speechless. “It’s beautiful.” Ivan looks around the restaurant as we stand at the reception desk, waiting to be seen. He nods subtly but says nothing.
“Mr. Harley,” a woman says, walking toward us. She’s older, perfectly groomed. The kind of hostess who smiles with practiced warmth. “I’m so glad you could join us this evening.” She extends her hand, and Ivan takes it, raising it to his lips in greeting. I see her wilt under his touch.
“Cassandra, darling,” he drawls, “it’s so good to see you. I didn’t realize you were working here.” There’s a small inflection in the way he says her name. A familiarity I don’t like.
“Yes, they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. It feels like forever since I’ve seen you, Ivan. You never come to The Park now.” He shakes his head. I notice the swift change from the use of his surname to his first name, and my skin prickles.
“My last experience wasn’t the best,” he answers. “They need to improve their customer service.”
“Yes, things are going downhill,” she agrees with a smile. “Please follow me. I’ll show you to your table.” As if remembering my presence for the first time since she appeared, he turns and signals for me to follow behind her.
We weave through the restaurant until we reach the back wall.
A plain blue door stands before us. She pushes it open, and we step through into a small private dining space.
The room is a mini version of the main restaurant with a single table set for two at the center.
Ivan looks at me, searching my face for a reaction.
“It’s stunning,” I stammer. He smiles, and my heart beats slightly faster.
“I prefer privacy. There are too many eyes in London. People often interrupt at inappropriate moments.” He turns to Cassandra and thanks her, then orders a bottle of wine. She scurries off in the direction of the main restaurant. He pulls out a chair for me to sit then takes his own seat.
We sit directly across from each other, our gazes locked in a silent battle.
My heart drops with a feeling like a stone, sinking under the weight of something unseen.
I find him attractive, and this wasn’t part of the plan.
To escape the moment, I pretend to study the menu, my eyes moving over the words without focus.
He does the same. We peek over the top of the rectangles of cardstock at each other occasionally. When his focus lands on me, my stomach flutters.
Cassandra appears again and fills our wine glasses. “Are you ready to order?” she asks.
“Can we have a few minutes?” Ivan responds. She dips her head and leaves again. “What do you like the look of?”
“Um…” I bite my lip, trying to organize my incoherent thoughts. You. Hell, Amy, focus. “I’ll have the green chicken curry, I think,” I reply, swiftly picking something at random.
“Good choice,” he says, continuing to look at his own menu.
For the next two hours, we sit, drink wine, and eat delicious Thai food. Conversation flows easily between us, completely surprising me. He goes over his time managing the Harley’s Gym in London and his plans for expansion over the years.
He’s animated and passionate about his work, and I can see he genuinely loves the business he’s in. Every time he laughs, deep and genuine, it hits somewhere I don’t want it to. I find myself softening to him as the minutes pass.
“That’s why I want Bex’s New You,” he says, and my eyes spring open. “I want to turn it into a high-end private fitness studio.”
“I won’t sell, Ivan,” I snap, annoyed. The subject hadn’t arisen until now, after I’d been plied with alcohol. “It will never be for sale.”
He chuckles. “Everything is for sale. Everything and everyone.” He raises an eyebrow. “Are you telling me you don’t need the money?” I swallow audibly. “Divorce is a messy business.”
He said the same thing to me a year ago in my office, and it’s so fucking true, but hell, I’m not admitting that.
“Is this a business or personal meeting?” I say harshly.
“Business,” he answers. “It’s always business.”
“You’ve brought me here under false pretenses. This isn’t dinner, it’s an ambush.” I stand, pushing my chair back, and it screeches along the floor. “I’m leaving.”
"So, Ms. Corrigan, you thought this was a date?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement. I glare at him, my anger flaring, then I open my purse and slap a fifty-pound note down on the table.
My emergency money.
I could really do without spending it, but this bastard isn’t going to know that. Without another word, I turn on my heel and leave.