Authors: Laura Carter
“You’re more than welcome, Miss Heath.” His voice is a low, masculine rumble.
I’m already walking away when it strikes me that he knows my name. I turn to ask him how but Gregory tugs slightly on my hand.
“After you,” he says, signaling for me to walk ahead of him onto the short red carpet laid out to welcome guests.
“The third tallest building in London after One Canada Square and, of course, now the Shard. Nice choice, Mr. Ryans.”
His eyes narrow but there’s a ghost of a smug smile on his face. I bite down on my bottom lip, trying to suppress my desire to taste him. A concierge in black dinner trousers, a white jacket fastened with dazzling gold buttons and the shiniest black patent shoes I’ve ever seen, holds open the door.
Inside, we’re received by another similarly dressed concierge. “Good evening,” he says to me. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Ryans.” The sound of my stilettos against the marble tiles echoes as we all follow him to the lift.
He greets Williams and Amanda in similar fashion and the mirror-panelled doors close. Catching a glimpse of my reflection, I shuffle awkwardly, repositioning my dress and wondering if I’m underdressed.
“Your eyes look fierce in that colour,” Amanda whispers into my ear.
People have always commented on my green-and-hazel eyes, ever since I was a girl, but I’ll never understand it. They’re as ordinary as every other part of me.
The lift doors open onto another marble floor, leading to a marble desk where we are greeted by a beautiful lady with a high-gloss blond French roll, wearing a tight black skirt and white shirt that show her perfect curves. Her bright blues are alive and wild as she studies Gregory. I half expect her to lick her lips on a growl and start humping his leg. He never pays her more than a cursory glance but I’m struck by an irrational sense of jealousy.
“Good evening, Mr. Ryans, let me show you to your table,” she says, fluttering her eyelids one too many times, in my opinion.
“I bet she’d like to show Mr. Ryans a lot more than that,” I mutter to myself, all the while smiling graciously at her delayed acknowledgement that Mr. Ryans has guests.
Amanda tugs my shoulder, pulling my head back toward her as we walk in line to our table. “Who
is
this man?” she whispers. “I feel like I should have known him before I met him.”
A young male waiter is already standing to attention like a toy soldier next to our table.
“Wow, the view of the city is stunning from here,” I say, genuinely struck by the lights twinkling from each tower block and bridge of London. “How high up are we?” I ask the waiter as he guides me towards the window seat on one side of the table.
“We’re on the fortieth floor, Miss Heath. The highest restaurant in the city,” he replies proudly, placing a black napkin across my lap before doing the same for Amanda. Once again, I’m left wondering how a complete stranger knows my name.
“Would you like the usual to drink, Mr. Ryans?” the waiter asks.
“Thank you, yes,” Gregory instructs. The waiter immediately scuttles away.
“What’s the usual?” I ask Gregory, who’s taken the seat opposite mine.
He looks me in the eye as he responds and I’m forced to look away to the view beneath us for fear he might see right through my business facade to my racing heart.
“A bottle of Pol Roger 2002 to start, followed by a bottle of Penfolds Grange 1998.” His voice hosts an edge of superiority.
“Oh good, I was worried you’d try to impress us by diving straight in for Cristal.” I laugh sarcastically. “You’ve certainly gone up in my estimations, Mr. Ryans.”
The table sits in stunned silence. Clearly, people don’t usually talk back to Mr. Bazillionaire CEO Ryans. He clears his throat and pauses, holding his closed fist to his mouth a second longer than necessary.
“You intrigue me, Miss Heath. I wonder how low I was in your estimations.”
His face is humourless, his strong, square jaw tight. I’m studying his masculine angles as I realise that I’ve been relegated back to “Miss Heath.” I can’t help but like the sound of it when it comes from him.
Him. He who is your client. Get a hold of yourself.
The silence at the table lasts for what seems like an age, broken only when our waiter pops the cork of the Pol Roger tableside. Gregory studies me intensely as the waiter pours four glasses of the champagne.
“Cheers,” Amanda says, thrusting her glass high.
We clink glasses and I let the smooth effervescence cool my hot, dry throat.
“So, you know good wine, Scarlett.” Gregory’s first words in what seems like an eternity are music to my ears. His manner is friendly, or as light as I’ve heard it at least. I realise he was teasing me, teaching me not to undermine him. I offer my best playful pout and scowl and he flashes me a mischievous grin. My internal organs perform acrobatics, from my chest right down to the lowest point of my abdomen. I hardly know this man and I cannot comprehend the way he’s making me feel.
“Her father has an enormous wine cellar,” Amanda offers in a bid to rescue me. “He and Scarlett used to holiday in chateaus in the South of France.”
“Used to?” Gregory asks.
“My dad,” I say, almost involuntarily. I check my watch and it’s nine fifteen.
“Sorry, Scarlett, I didn’t mean to re—”
“No, please, it’s fine, Amanda. Honestly. I just need to make a quick call, if you’ll excuse me.”
Both Gregory and Williams rise from their seats when I hurriedly leave the table.
Sandy answers as I lean back against the stone sink in the ladies’. She tells me that my father has had a good day and he’s tucked up in bed. She intends to put her feet up with an eighties movie and a peach melba pudding that she had delivered with the shopping today.
“I’m at dinner with a client and I’m not sure how long I’ll be but I’ll be as quick as I can,” I say, instantly feeling dishonest, despite telling the truth. “If you need me just call and I’ll come straight back, I promise.”
“You have fun, we’re fine here.”
“Okay, but call me, Sandy. Do you promise?”
“I promise, sweets, but we’re fine.”
“Sandy?” I say before she hangs up the receiver. “It’s sort of a client. A client but not completely a work thing. I mean, it is more a work thing than not a work thing.”
She chuckles, her warm, homely giggle emanating from her stomach.
“You have fun,” she says, then hangs up the receiver of the old cream telephone. I imagine her looking at the phone in the hallway and shaking her head at me. She really is an amazing woman.
Leaning forward on my hands over the sink, I study myself in the mirror and ask myself what I’m doing.
Do not fuck this up!
My subconscious tells me Gregory is a client but it fights a losing battle every time I lay my eyes on him. I tip my head upside down, partly to shake sense into it and partly to inject some life into my day-old curls. I reapply my red Chanel lipstick and tell myself I’d reapply for anyone, not just a sinfully attractive CEO.
“Did I miss much?” I ask, retaking my seat at the table.
“Just Edward telling us tales of him and Gregory at their all-boys’ school. Or so it should have been. Edward was Gregory’s school ‘buddy,’ supposed to settle him into his new school, but he led him astray somewhat,” Amanda chirps and she laughs with Williams.
“You can’t learn everything in a classroom,” Williams says.
My eyes flit to Gregory then quickly down to my glass of champagne and across the table to Williams. “Do you prefer Edward?”
“I don’t mind really, although I am more likely to respond to Williams. This old boy seems to forget that I go by any other name.”
“Less of the ‘old boy,’” Gregory retorts.
I remember from my research that it’s his thirtieth birthday today. I wonder if that’s the only reason he’s taken time off on a Friday evening or if this is a regular occurrence.
“Of course, happy birthday, Gregory,” I say, raising my glass into the middle of the table.
Gregory looks to Williams.
“I didn’t say a word,” Williams protests.
“You seem to know things about me, Miss Heath,” Gregory says as he clinks my glass with his.
“More than you think but I still have a few questions.”
“Is that right? Please, indulge my curiosity,” he says as Williams and Amanda start up their own conversation in the background.
I look out to the view of the city and my office block, then back to Gregory. “I don’t like to mix business with pleasure,” I tell him truthfully.
“And which is this? Business or pleasure?”
Torture
,
I think. My cheeks flush red under the intensity of his gaze. My mouth opens to speak but words fail me.
“What else gives you pleasure, Scarlett?” His voice is slightly hoarse, his eyes dark and heavy.
There’s a murmur of wantonness between my legs and I’d hazard a guess that my sex just got very wet. I take a deep, endless breath and cross one leg over the other, trying to control the rush of blood that’s pulsing in my clit and fueling a need to be filled, completely consumed, by this man.
“Theatre.” I utter the first thing that comes to my head, barely audibly.
For a moment, if I didn’t know better, I’d think Mr. Sexy Bazillionaire CEO had lost his composure.
He swallows deeply, his Adam’s apple rising and falling against the taut skin of his throat. “Do you have a favourite play?”
“
The Phantom of the Opera
, it’s a classic. A new play has just come out and Judi Dench is taking the lead. I’d love to see her on stage but the tickets sold out within hours. Do you like the theatre?”
“Yes.”
I pause, waiting, wanting more.
“Yes?” I giggle, the relief welcome. “That’s all you’re giving me?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t give much away, Mr. Ryans.”
* * *
Our food is exquisite and we pass the time effortlessly, conversation flowing between the four of us. Gregory never looks entirely at ease but is always a gentleman. The wait staff fuss around him and at some point during our meal, every female in the room undresses him with her eyes.
“What do you say to a night cap ladies?” Williams asks when our dessert plates have been cleared.
I check my watch. It’s gone eleven. “I’m sorry but I’ve got to get home, I hadn’t intended to be out this late.”
Gregory’s brows furrow and I feel compelled to explain. “My father isn’t well.”
He nods, his face stoic. “I’m sorry to hear that. Jackson will take you both home.” It’s a statement, not an offer.
When our waiter comes back to the table Gregory shakes his hand and rises from the table.
“What about the bill?” I ask.
“Taken care of,” Gregory says, gesturing in the direction of the lift, telling me to walk on ahead of him.
In the lift, I insist again on paying for half of the bill, or at the very least my own share, but Gregory won’t engage in a discussion. I want to state my case but I know it would be querulous to continue an argument I’d never win.
Jackson asks Amanda and me where we’d like to be dropped. I protest that my West London home must be out of everybody’s way but Gregory responds with silence and takes his seat in the front of the Mercedes with Jackson. I take my seat in the back feeling the same sense of annoyance I felt on the way to the restaurant.
Who does this supercilious man think he is?
We drop Amanda at her flat first, followed by Williams. I’m sure Gregory mustn’t live as far from the city as I do but he refuses to entertain my suggestion that I’m dropped home last.
Sandy has left the porch light on for me but the rest of the house is in darkness when we pull up outside. I know it’s my own fault but I’m sad that I won’t get to speak to my dad today. Jackson interrupts my self-pitiful thoughts by opening the car door.
Gregory is already out of the passenger side and watches me as I walk around the car toward him, leaning his tall, firm body back against the Mercedes. My eyes take him in, everything about him, the alcohol fog in my mind rendering my inhibitions dangerously low.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” I say, holding out my hand.
Gregory hesitates but silently shakes my hand. His hold is gentle but there are undeniable sparks of electricity flying between us. I want to pull my hand away. I need to break the connection that’s rendered me stupid in the face of this virile man. But he leans forward before my limbs do as my head instructs. His hot breath caresses my cheek before his soft lips press against the skin beneath my lobe. My eyes close as the sensation of his kiss travels to my breasts, hardening the expectant ends. My sex aches, widening, slick with lust.
I take a step back, swallowing my desire before I peel open my eyelids.
Summoning willpower from somewhere deep inside me, I force my weak legs to carry me to the house. With my key in the lock, I turn to find him still there, leaning lazily against the car, his hands resting in his jean pockets, his eyes dark and hooded.
“Goodnight, Miss Heath,” he says, just loud enough to reach me through the cool autumn darkness.
In the sanctity of my own home, I press my back against the closed door and slide down to my hunkers.
“Bloody hell!”
That’s it. The one and only occasion. A completely unforgettable evening where I felt things that I’ve never felt before, yes. But a one off, regardless. There’s a line, I’m fully aware of it and I’ll never cross it again.
But as the hot shower sprays onto my face, he won’t leave my mind.
Damn him and his bloody hotness!
My fingers stroke my lips as I think of his. How I’d love to bite them, suck them, feel them against my skin. My mouth parts, filling with warm water, and I lean forward, bracing my unsteady body with my hands on the tiles in front of me. I haven’t imagined it. Those luring lopsided smirks, the teasing glint in those otherworldly brown gems and the fact that they spent most of the night watching me. My heart starts beating faster as I think about
that
pose, in the bar, and just now leaning back against the Mercedes, his hands in his pockets, his hips flexed seductively.