Authors: Elise Alden
“... So think about it, Izzy. You can strike back at James and we can enjoy it. A win-win situation.” Greg puffed his chest out. “Sex would be an added bonus.”
“Don’t make me puke.”
He considered trying to force the sex issue but I saw the moment he decided I wasn’t worth the hassle. What Greg wanted more than anything was to destroy James’s career, any way he could. I should have felt relieved I wasn’t his prey, but I didn’t. I was distracted when James came back from his meeting. He didn’t like it and I got snarky. And all the while Greg sat there smirking at me.
I wanted to tell James about his spiteful plans, but I was afraid he would accuse me of lying. Whenever we had a moment alone Greg tried to convince me to insult James at the party until I was forced to insult
him
. After that his face became as hot and angry as James’s was cold and indifferent.
Nothing like a happy work environment.
Chapter Thirteen
Trash at the Bash II
I’d like to say that my relationship with both of my bosses improved but that’s one lie I won’t add to my tally. However, we settled into a modus operandi that enabled us to work together effectively. It wasn’t the friendliest of environments but it wasn’t a battleground either.
The following week Mr Lemane held his annual birthday and “pat on the back” party on the top floor of our building, in the social functions suite. All of the employees were invited up after work and Greg, James and I made our way promptly at five. Flintfire staff and Mr Lemane’s family and friends were either chatting and mingling or dancing to corny love songs. I declined a glass of bubbly and looked around for an alternative.
Greg made a disgusted noise. He told the waiter to come back and picked up a glass for me. “It’s after hours, Betty. Go ahead.”
James was a few feet away talking to Mr Lemane. He turned his head to watch me accusingly, making me want to take the drink just to annoy him. Not that I didn’t want it anyway. Once an addict, always an addict in my book. There’s no magical pill that will ever take away the craving for a high. The only thing that had rivalled the need had been one long, passionate night in Brighton. I shoved the memory aside and glared at James, angry with him for making me remember.
“Drink up,” Greg insisted, trying to push a glass on me.
I sucked in a long, annoyed breath and let it out, uncaring whether Greg noticed or not. I hate it when people don’t get the message. I suppose I should be used to it by now, but fielding insistent urgings to drink is bloody annoying when you’re an alcoholic. I toyed with saying I was on a diet but the chocolate éclairs on the buffet table looked sinfully delicious. My sweet tooth is the size of an elephant’s tusks.
“No thanks,” I said.
Why didn’t Greg piss off? Everywhere I went he followed. I took a step away and he grabbed my arm, gripping tightly enough to make it impossible to disengage discreetly. He looked around for someone and when he found him—a lawyer called Tom who worked in Probate—he nodded. Stuck to Greg, I watched as Tom turned the lights on and then I blinked at the sudden brightness.
“May I have your attention please,” Greg said. He used to work in criminal law and his courtroom voice carried across the function suite. I tugged my arm but he dug in hard enough to bruise. Someone turned off the music and people looked our way curiously.
“This year our most famous colleague, Elizabeth Benítez, aka Paisley Benton, would like to make a toast to Mr Lemane and say a few words about James.”
Greg shoved the champagne flute into my hand and let go, forcing me to grasp it so it didn’t drop to the floor. “Carpe diem, Betsy,” he sneered.
Mr Lemane smiled graciously and walked over with James. Expectant, avid faces stared at me and I felt the blood leach from my face. Is there such a thing as a crime of panic? Surely someone from criminal law would represent me if I murdered Greg? Either I refused to toast the senior partner and talk about James, or I hacked out a garbled, inarticulate speech in front of sleekly polished vultures eager to see me in action. It was clear they expected the worst.
One look at James’s taut face convinced me that he did too.
My mouth moulded into something that didn’t feel remotely like a smile. “Thank you Greg, for the impromptu trial-by-speech,” I said stiltedly. “And thank goodness the jury is out because I could never do our senior partner justice.” I turned to Mr Lemane, shaking my head apologetically. “I’m afraid I haven’t bought you a gift and neither have I toasted anybody in a very long time. But hey, if this speech gets as many hits as my last one, Flintfire could claim intellectual property rights and charge millions of vicious, voyeuristic people for the privilege of watching it.”
Confusion, then humour flashed in Mr Lemane’s gaze and then he laughed. Someone suggested he could retire on the revenue, causing another round of laughter. Against my better judgement I read a few random faces and was grateful the blush fairy had gone AWOL. Memories of my wedding speech were uppermost in their minds and most of them wanted a repeat performance. Several people had taken out their mobiles, no doubt ready to record. Not because they bore James any malice, as Greg did, but because they were spiteful enough to enjoy a successful colleague’s public embarrassment.
They wanted “Trash at the Bash II.”
In spite of my bravado I felt anything but nonchalant. James’s tense posture made me feel angry on his behalf. Protective. I might be fighting a losing battle with him regarding Ryan, but I’d be damned if I allowed people to titter at his expense if I could help it. It was time to sum up and conclude.
I lifted my glass to Mr Lemane. “Thank you for hiring me and for the opportunity to work with James, the best tax lawyer in London, but more importantly, a man of honour and integrity,” I said, noting the surprised start in James’s shoulders. “Many happy returns.”
Everyone toasted Mr Lemane and he gave a small speech lauding James and a few other lawyers. Then he urged us to enjoy the party and the music started up again. When the lights dimmed, I was left standing with Greg, James and Mr Lemane.
Greg was angry, though he hid it well. He stared at my full glass pointedly. “You didn’t drink to Mr Lemane.”
I could feel my jaw clenching and my teeth grinding together. My inner bitch was threatening to claw her way out of my throat and I swallowed her with an effort.
“I don’t drink.”
Greg made an incredulous noise. “Are you some sort of religious fanatic?”
“No, I’m an alcoholic.”
Oh God, why hadn’t I lied? “Has a tendency to blurt her alcoholism” doesn’t make good job reference reading, does it?
Greg laughed, enjoying my discomfort, and Mr Lemane frowned.
“Sorry Betty, I didn’t mean to laugh.”
I returned his false smile. “That’s okay, Greg. It was a jerk reaction, right? I know you can’t help it.”
Mr Lemane grinned and raised his glass to salute me. He was drinking sparkling water.
“Plenty of water and fizzy drinks for us fanatics,” he said.
I made my excuses and headed straight to the buffet table. What I really wanted was to sneak a sip of champagne before I put the glass down. Damn it! I hadn’t felt this shaken up over a glass of booze in years. Being put on the spot in front of a room full of people who knew my history had got to me. Their desire that I crash and burn, humiliate myself and James for their enjoyment was like a kick in the ribs.
I’d just taken a bite of chocolate éclair when I caught a whiff of musky cologne. I chewed, not really tasting it, conscious of James behind me and of people looking at us while they pretended not to.
“You’re still as frank as I remember,” James said.
He didn’t sound disgusted, but nonetheless I was on the defensive. “I am what I am. No point in pretending otherwise.”
“You never did pretend to be anything else—only someone else.”
Ouch
.
I couldn’t defend myself for impersonating Caroline. After all, there was no excuse for what I had done. But James’s expression was more probing than accusatory, his tone more questioning than angry, as if he wanted answers about that night.
I bowed my head. “I was drunk and I fell asleep,” I said softly. “You were... persuasive and I wasn’t thinking straight.”
Silence, and then, “I don’t think either one of us did much thinking.”
Was that regret in his voice or had I downed the champagne and not realised it? Nope, the glass was full and where I’d left it next to the blinis. Skin tingling with heat, I glanced around the room.
“You should circulate, Scott-Thomas. ‘Trash at the Bash’ has a large fan base and we’re attracting attention.”
James shrugged. “‘Rash at the Bash’ was much worse. Disgusting, really.”
Stupefied, I stuffed the other half of éclair into my mouth and chewed. Then I chewed some more. James watched me and I got the sense he wouldn’t say anything else until I’d swallowed the damn thing and responded. Did he think I
enjoyed
the craze my speech had created?
“I hate those videos.”
He smiled faintly. “Only ‘vicious, voyeuristic people’ would stoop to watch them.”
The self-mocking tone to his voice roused my suspicions.
“Tell me you haven’t seen ‘Trash at the Bash—A Waiter’s Perspective,’” I said, narrowing my eyes.
It showed footage of me spilling red wine on my chest before my speech and zoomed in, focusing on the wet nipple poking underneath the thin, white linen.
James pursed his lips then took a sip of champagne, and I groaned. “‘Smash at the Bash’ has more hits these days, or so my Cambridge friends tell me,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “Did you see ‘Cash at the Bash’?”
The main protagonist was an eighty-year-old millionaire in Scotland who assembled his nearest and dearest for a pre-death reading of his will at his birthday party, only to tell them he’s leaving everything to his cats. I’d thought it was hilarious.
“My personal favourite,” James said, a wry note in his voice. “Even if I didn’t get to be the one who set up the trust. It might be fun to advise on one of those.”
I laughed, drawing more avid looks. People were discreet, granted, but they were devouring us like wolves. Briefly, I thought about broaching the subject of Ryan before James walked off, but somehow it didn’t seem right to pounce on him with my demands; it didn’t seem...proper.
“Have a nice weekend,” I said, stepping away.
“Stay.”
I never thought I’d answer to a dog command but there I was, frozen in place by one simple word.
“I thought you had joined forces with Greg,” James said. “All of our other secretaries have told me of his machinations but you didn’t.”
“Not because I agreed to help him,” I assured him. “The man’s a scumbag, but you hate me so much I didn’t think you’d believe me if I told you about him.”
He picked up a blini and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. “I don’t hate you.”
“Say again?”
Unlike Greg, James wasn’t into repeating himself. “It’s time Greg realises he can’t manipulate our secretaries for his own pleasure.”
“We could dance,” I said impulsively.
A look of panic flashed across his face. “Mrs Lemane asked me to dance a few years ago. After that a clause was added to my contract stipulating I must never dance at a Flintfire function. My prowess makes other employees feel inadequate.”
“Chicken, James?”
He held my arm, ushering me to the dance floor. Our skin sparked on contact but he didn’t let go. “Just remember that I warned you.”
The song playing was “California Dreaming” and the cover band’s interpretation had a beat easy to dance to—or so I thought. James circled my upper back with his right arm as if preparing for a ballroom waltz. He stood stiffly, his back ramrod straight as he took my right hand. A few couples saw us and moved hastily away. I soon found out why.
Grasping my hand tightly, James waved it down and up in a wide arc. Then he did a sort of pendulum waddle with the rest of his body and yanked me along with him. For a second I wondered if breaking into the chicken dance would be better than trying to follow his lead. Our arms sliced through the air as we left off windshield wiping for chopping firewood on the move.
It felt like being maneuvered by a remote control gone wild. I never thought I’d agree with Caroline about anything, but she was right all those years ago—James couldn’t dance worth... Well, the man was a disaster on the dance floor.
Without warning, James changed direction and I tripped over his foot. I yelped as he wrenched me forward and we narrowly missed colliding with the couple behind him.
“Time out,” I gasped, narrowly avoiding stabbing his foot with my stiletto.
“Can’t keep up with a pro?”
“Shut up and pay attention to detail, Scott-Thomas,” I ordered. “Keep your hand on my waist and take my right hand like you did before. Ouch! Loosen up. No, not like that. Loose, not droopy! Good. Now move your hips but only a bit. Try to follow the beat and then we can move. Oh God, don’t lift your feet like you’re marching to war, just sway a little bit.”
“Like this?”
“No, more slowly.”
“Is that better?”
“No, do it like...” I bit my lip. “Like you did that night in Brighton.”
James looked down and I looked downer, convinced I’d stepped on the missing screw in my brain. I couldn’t even think in proper English anymore much less speak to James. Something was definitely wrong with me. Mercifully, he said nothing. The song faded into the beginning of Phyllis Nelson’s “Move Closer” and I stopped dancing, listening to her sensual intro.
James tightened his hold. “If you don’t dance with me I’ll get mobbed by my fan club.”
I laughed and we adjusted to the lingering rhythm of the song. His hand was hot around my waist, circling it with just the right amount of pressure. There was nothing untoward or improper in our hold, and we danced with our bodies as respectfully apart as our colleagues. But we might as well have been plastered together.
My entire body felt hot-wired to James’s, bonded by a current of sensual energy I hadn’t felt in years. And as I rested my head lightly against his chest, my mind filled with the bittersweet memory of the last time he’d held me in his arms.
We swayed side to side, completely out of sync with the music, but I wasn’t complaining. I was losing it, my mind tortured by the painful recollection while my body thrummed with pleasure. We didn’t speak, and I wondered if he too was remembering the bridal suite. My eyes burned and my throat closed over. I wanted the song to end and I never wanted it to stop.
James’s warm breath floated over my skin and the hand around my waist pressed me closer. My annoying nipples tightened, big, hard points pressing into his chest so that I tensed and leaned away.
“The only opinions I ever cared about were my family’s,” James said, mistaking my tension for discomfort at being watched. “Relax.”
Well, if I relaxed any more I would only be retrievable in liquid form. For once I was thankful when I saw Velma coming towards us. She tapped on my shoulder, cutting in and releasing me from tongue-tied torment. My manic smile and extra bubbly encouragement for her to take my place was met with enthusiasm.