Authors: Charlotte Phillips
God he had an ego to match the size of his manhood. This was clearly the part where as a normal groupie she would be meant to fawn over him and fan his massive ego until he got bored, at which point he would scout around for his next conquest and she would fade into the background, perhaps with just a parting whisper of gratitude as she went. No way was she giving that a chance to happen. She’d slept with him now, there was no going back and changing that, but it didn’t mean she had to carry on with the madness now it was done.
‘Absolutely,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye and smoothing her hair back from her face with both hands. She could just imagine what a fright it must look and she daren’t even hazard a guess at how her mascara had stood up to the experience. ‘I don’t want you to autograph my knickers, I’m not going to steal any of your belongings as a trophy and I’m sorry to disappoint you but I am actually going to shower later and wash off all your kisses.’
He was staring at her, a look of amusement on his face, not remotely fazed. He’d made no attempt to obstruct her, had simply watched her dashing around the room and speed dressing with a smile playing about his lips.
****
Bit of a curved ball this.
He had just worked out how to operate the controls on the hot tub, plans already forming in his head for a slow and languorous second-round laced with bubbles and waterjets, and she was on her way out of the door. He’d been ready to settle into an all-night experience, seeing how many more of her inhibitions he could erase.
The shoulder-length blonde hair was no longer sleek and groomed. Instead it flicked out in haphazard waves which gave away exactly what she’d just been doing. And just looking at her like that, with her sensible make-up a bit smudgy now around her blue eyes, fired him right back up.
Girls running out on him was uncharted territory. Where was the feverish writing down of phone numbers, the begging for assurances that yes, he would call (which in the event meant no, he certainly wouldn’t)? Where were the requests to have photos taken with him for sharing on Facebook? And more to the point, when had he ever post-sex had a girl ask
him
to forget about it and treat it as if it had never happened?
That was his remit, wasn’t it? Maybe he was losing his touch. Had the last hour or so not been the most glorious experience? The way she’d slowly given up her shyness, shed inhibitions, put her trust in him and worked with him to push things to heights so dizzy he was actually stunned? She’d never had sex like that before, he knew it because she’d given it away with her hesitation, and that she’d trusted him enough to go with her instincts touched him on a visceral level that didn’t usually come into play.
She was heading for the door now, clothes in disarray, jacket slung over one arm. He saw her dart to one side as she spotted her bra hanging over a side table and grabbed at it.
‘What if I need some arrangements making?’ he called after her. ‘Errands running…car … room service…?’
‘There’s a number attached to the phone,’ she said.
‘And will I get you?’
She paused at the door and turned back.
‘I’m one of a team,’ she said. The look on her face told him that the real answer was a resounding ‘no’. Exasperation made him roll his eyes. She was a mass of infuriating contradictions. How could someone who’d given their everything to him in the last hour or so now be backtracking so fast he could barely keep up?
She held the door open for a split second while she took a quick glance each way down the corridor, and then she slipped through the gap and was gone. The door clicked softly shut behind her.
‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’
When she looked up she saw Lucy staring at her from the staff room doorway and perhaps sitting with her head in her hands wasn’t the best way to deflect attention and pretend everything was normal. It did, however, seem to help calm her racing brain.
‘I’ve become my mother,’ she said.
Lucy pulled a puzzled face.
‘You mean you’re off round the world to follow some boy band? Or are you planning on doing the festival season next year, sleeping in a tent and drinking mead?’ Her voice was jokey. Because of course the idea of Layla Jones doing something like that was so out of character that it really was a joke.
‘For Pete’s sake, you’re missing the point!’ she wailed. ‘I’ve
slept
with him.’
This time it seemed to penetrate. Lucy’s mouth fell open.
‘Him? You don’t mean Matt Stanton?’
Disbelief dominated her expression and Layla felt the teeniest hint of offense. Was it really THAT hard to believe?
‘Yes. After we talked before, I went up to check the suite, see if there was anything he needed.’ How easily
that
lie tripped off her tongue, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as Lucy that it really hadn’t been quite that premeditated. ‘And my head was spinning with all that stuff you said about being boring and never acting on impulse…’ she threw up her hands ‘…one thing led to another.’ She clapped both hands over her eyes. ‘What have I done?’
‘Was he good?’
The bottom fell out of her stomach just from thinking about it.
Good
really didn’t have a hope in hell of covering it. And the fact that deep down there was a part of her that was exhilarated by what she’d done only added to her horror at herself. In a single afternoon, she’d betrayed every single belief she’d lived by for the last twenty-odd years. She looked between her fingers at Lucy.
‘That’s totally irrelevant.’
‘Actually, it isn’t. There’s a world of distance between a one-night-stand that’s pants and one that’s good.’
‘Technically it’s not even a one-night-stand. More a couple-of-hours-stand. If there is such a thing.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Good? How can it be good? I could be sacked on the spot.’
‘Why? Did you get caught?’
‘No but-‘
‘Did you take precautions?’
‘Of course I did! I’m not a total idiot.’
Lucy shrugged.
‘Then don’t worry about it. Layla, you are not the first woman in the world to have a one-off quickie. This isn’t the Dark Ages. It really is not such a big deal.’ She pulled out her mobile phone and began to casually check her texts, clearly so unfazed by the revelation that she was bored with it already. ‘Chill out, will you,’ she added.
Layla stared at her.
‘I’m a slut.’
‘You’re a woman who makes her own choices.’ Lucy said, then returned to the only thing about the situation that really seemed to be of interest. ‘So was he?’
‘What?’
‘Good?’
Oh for crying out loud.
****
It never happened.
She’d repeated that mantra over and over throughout the restless, sleep-deprived night in the hope that soon her brain might actually start to believe it. She regretted telling Lucy about it now. It became a whole lot harder to deny something to yourself once you’d let someone else in on it.
The following morning she took deliberately shallow, calming breaths as she crossed the marble floor of the lobby to the reception desk to check for messages. It was perfectly simple.
Business as usual
was the approach here. All she needed to do was get through his stay here without coming into contact with him. That and avoid watching tennis on TV ever again so she wouldn’t see him and be reminded of the most insane decision she’d ever made.
She absently picked up a tabloid newspaper left on one of the lobby tables as she passed and glanced casually at its front cover, a colour photo depicting Matt Stanton and his perfect abs frolicking in the surf at some swanky beach resort with a stunning blonde model. Shallow breaths turned into hyperventilation.
Better add avoiding the papers into that game plan.
‘Ah there you are, thought you’d gone AWOL, been looking for you for the last half hour.’
She turned, heart plummeting, to see the hotel manager with his usual overbearing presence and the sharp eyes in the jowly face that always made her feel like he was ready to pounce if she put a foot wrong. She tried desperately to channel cool, calm professionalism when she was certain her guilty conscience would show on her face.
‘Is there a problem?’ she asked, forcing a bright smile and following his grey-suited bulk into the office behind the marble counter. He closed the door behind them.
‘Our
special
guest
, Kerry Suite,’ he began and her stomach fell through the floor. ‘Called down to discuss what Guest Services offer.’
Oh bloody hell he’s made a complaint.
Cold shock thumped through her veins as the ramifications of this pelted through her head. Dismissal on the spot, that’s what this was. She’d never get a reference after this. She’d never be able to keep up the rent and she had zero savings to carry her through while she tried to pin down another job. This was it, the perfect end to the craziest day, the final coup de grace.
She was about to get the sack for shagging a celebrity guest.
The hideous irony of it twisted her stomach. She of all people should have known better. Basking in the fringes of celebrity meant you could be soaking up the glamour one minute and kicked back into the gutter the next.
‘I can explain,’ she said, wondering how the hell she possibly could.
‘Wants to use one of our staff exclusively for the week,’ he spoke loudly over her. ‘PA duties, a few errands, organising, that kind of thing. Apparently he doesn’t want a butler, wants to limit the number of staff he comes into contact with, something about keeping a low profile.’ His face screamed disapproval. ‘He’s never out of the press, obviously must be wanting to take a break. Anyway,’ he nodded at her, ‘asked for you by name.’
He what?
The brief relief at the revelation that he hadn’t actually reported her and she wasn’t about to be handed her P45 was trampled by her heart, which kicked into action with full-on sweaty-palmed thundering. He wanted to
use her exclusively
for the week? What the hell did that mean? Did he really need someone to run errands and make his travel arrangements, or did
using her exclusively
mean something altogether different? The image of his muscular frame looming over her as she lay on the Kerry Suite dining table flashed unbidden into her mind. She felt suddenly light headed and sank into the chair beside the desk before she could fold onto the thick pile carpet.
‘I’m not sure I’m the best choice,’ she said weakly. ‘Guest Services is madly busy, constant phone calls and requests from guests and the boss is off sick. Wouldn’t one of the concierge team be a better bet?’
Possibly the skinny male one with the laugh like a drain. He’d be perfectly safe.
A decisive shake of the head.
‘Job’s yours, already agreed. Can’t possibly spare a concierge, short staffed there as it is. And between you and me, this could be an excellent move for you.’
He tapped the side of his nose in an I-know-something-you-don’t-know gesture. She stared at him. What the hell did that mean? He leaned across the desk and lowered his voice.
‘You mentioned Margery is on sick leave? Worse than expected apparently - she’s just handed her notice in.’
Her boss Margery, Guest Services Manager, who ran the team like a tyrant and who definitely would NOT condone an ill-judged fling with a guest.
‘The job will be advertised internally first. You’ve been with us for a couple of years, you’ve done all the courses, proved yourself, so pull this one-to-one service off for the week and you could have the promotion in the bag. This kind of celebrity guest is exactly what the place needs to up the hotel’s profile and get us playing with the big boys. So get yourself up to the Kerry Suite and keep that guest happy. Everyone’s a winner.’
****
Everyone was most definitely NOT a winner.
The manager’s job could be her saving grace. Finally she could be making enough money to start moving forwards instead of madly paddling just to keep her head above water. She could save up a new deposit, she’d be a better prospect for a mortgage. A proper secure future with a bit of certainty about it for a change. But all she needed to do to make it happen was not stuff this up. Plans to avoid Matt Stanton like the plague for the week went out of the window and she tried desperately to come up with some kind of rational approach as the lift took her smoothly up to the top floor.
Maybe he really did just need a temporary assistant for the week to handle his admin while he stayed here. It wasn’t exactly unusual for the hotel to allow guests to utilise their staff when required. If you were prepared to paint a whole floor candy pink giving up one of your staff instead of calling in a temp from an agency was really a no-brainer.
Except that he’d asked for her by name
. And surely that could only mean one thing: the kind of personal services he was looking for had nothing to do with making travel arrangements and doing a few secretarial jobs.
There was nothing else for it, she would just have to convince Matt Stanton that she wasn’t up for a week-long stint as his plaything. She’d already made it clear that what had happened between them was a mistake, all she needed to do was stick to that line.
If
she could pull it off.
She kept her eyes fixed on the panel of lift buttons instead of checking her reflection in its mirrored wall as she usually did, just to prove to herself that she definitely did not give a toss what Matt Stanton thought of her appearance. This would be about providing a professional service. Nothing more. And if she could just keep things on that kind of detached level her life might look a whole lot more optimistic in a week’s time.
And it would be a whole lot easier if her stupid heart stopped skipping a beat every time she thought of him.
‘Good of you to knock,’ he said as he opened the door. He was wearing jeans and a sea green shirt that did nothing to hide the broad muscular shoulders, sleeves pushed up to the elbows to reveal his strong tanned forearms. His hair was softly tousled and his brown eyes creased lightly at the corners as he leaned against the jamb and smiled his melt-your-stomach smile. Her heart, clearly not up to speed on the absolute requirement for professionalism here, did a soft little skip in her chest.
Warmth rose in her cheeks as she crossed the room to stand by the rolltop desk in the corner and turned to face him. She deliberately averted her eyes from the glossy dining table in her peripheral vision. It was hard enough to stop her mind from providing constant reruns of what had gone on over there, without actually
looking
at the scene. She turned to him, spiral notebook upraised like a shield in front of her chest, pen poised to take notes.
‘Perhaps we can start with a brief outline of the tasks you think you need covering. That will give me an indication of how to adjust my working hours. I’ve been covering the late shift this last week or two but I can change that around depending on the kind of admin support you’re after.’
Admin support. That was good. That sounded officey.
He waved a dismissive hand her way.
‘Shouldn’t think there’s any major need for you to adjust your hours,’ he said. ‘The whole point of me staying here this week is to refocus on my training and minimise distractions. I have training sessions every morning with an early start so I’m not likely to be in the suite until the afternoon. If you could arrange transport to and from the tennis club I’ll be using, that would be great.’ He began to count things off on his fingers. ‘I also need to keep some control over my nutrition, so I’ll provide you with a list of foods I require and those I want to exclude and you can use that to liaise with the kitchen. I assume that won’t be a problem?’
She stared at him for a moment, wrongfooted, before her brain clicked into gear and she started making hasty notes as he carried on with a list of run-of-the-mill tasks. The most exciting, and
exciting
was actually a real stretch here, were a list of box set DVD’s he wanted tracked down.
Part of her was busy being grateful that she was more than up for the job. There was nothing exactly taxing here. If the list was anything to go by she was going to be bored out of her skull all week. The other part of her was knocked sideways by the revelation that actually, this wasn’t about sex, and what the hell was that dragging feeling in her stomach all about? It intensified as the mundane list grew. And she absolutely refused to countenance that it might be disappointment. The last thing she needed or wanted was to pick up where they’d left off the previous evening.
Had he decided on reflection that their encounter simply wasn’t worth a second run? It might have been off-the-scale memorable to her but he probably screwed women on dining tables every night of the week. What a stupid arrogant fool she’d been to think he might want to do it more than once with run-of-the-mill sensible and boring Layla Jones.
Turned out he really did want a PA/Admin assistant. Who knew? Apparently sports stars with crazy sex lives still had filing and phone calls to take care of.
‘Perhaps you’d like to have some coffee sent up and we can run through the details?’
She made the call while he crossed to the fireplace and sat down on one of the two velvet sofas. She followed him and sat down opposite him. The dining table sat to one side of the suite like the elephant in the room and the faint look of amusement that hung in his eyes told her that he was enjoying that fact, and was watching her awkwardness with interest.
‘I’ll take meals up in the suite rather than using the restaurant,’ he said.
‘I guessed that would be the case,’ she said, making a note.