Vengeful Love (8 page)

Damn my bloody mind. I need to think up and articulate an excuse that will sit a little easier than the truth: that it’s hard enough to maintain barriers when he’s being an absolute dick of a client but I’m defenseless against the thought of that body in a dinner suit. And, frankly, I don’t want him to get his own way like he’s so clearly used to doing.

Hell
, who am I kidding, the thought of him having his way with me is what’s got me wound as tight as a ball of string.

“But?”

“Erm, I... I don’t think I’d have time to finish up here and get ready.”

“I haven’t told you what time it starts.”

I straighten my back and get a grip of my wandering mind. “I’m sorry, Gregory, just not this time. I could try to get a colleague to go with you, for the numbers, as you say. Maybe Amanda could go, I mean, since it’s a business opportunity and all?”

He leans forward like we’re the only people in the room.

“I want
you
.”

My lungs empty. I look straight up through my lashes to see his strong face questioning me. I’m frozen, unable to speak. Through my silence, I submit to his demand.

He looks at his Omega watch with a knowing glint in his eye. “I’ll have Jackson pick you up at seven.”

Fuckety-fuck.

Chapter Nine

Frantic and sweaty thanks to running from the tube, I bound up the stairs and straight into my father’s room. When I find him sleeping, I back out quietly but end up squealing as I step into Sandy.

“Let’s move, you haven’t got much time.” She drags me by the hand toward my bedroom.

“Alright, Sandy, Jesus, you’re going to pull my arm out of the socket.”

“Nonsense. Strip. You need to get in the shower.”

As I’m taking off my office attire, I notice a Harrods dress bag hanging on the front of my wardrobe, then a Louboutin shoebox resting by the bed. “What’s this?”

Sandy giggles. “A lovely man dropped them for you earlier. Geoffrey Jackson he said his name is. Mr. Ryans’s driver apparently. Quite a dish.” I raise an eyebrow at the unusual sight of Sandy animated over a man. She flushes pink and uses the dress bag as a distraction, turning her back to me to pull down the zip and reveal an evening gown.

If it were possible, my jaw would quite literally hit the floor. I stroke the tips of my fingers over the floor-length crimson satin. The rim of the sweetheart neckline is encrusted with clear crystals. My heart sinks when I feel the bones in the tiny waist.
It’ll never fit.
Sandy pulls open the shoebox to show me matching satin shoes, the buckle crystal encrusted. From another bag she holds up ivory elbow-length gloves.

I try on the gloves, holding out my hands and turning them in front of me. There’s a small box beneath them and in it what I suspect are real pearls—a beautiful, delicate necklace, a matching bracelet and drop earrings. With them, a note:
Because I know you’re worried about timing, one less thing to think about.

Timing really isn’t my issue, that I’m falling helplessly for a client is a major problem. Regardless, I can’t accept all this, not from a client nor an extraordinarily sexy man.

“Lady, get in the shower, you need to get a move on.”

I look over the new bags and boxes. I don’t have time to argue and he’ll know it. Once again, the CEO is going to get his own way with me.

I decide I only have time to roughly curl and pin up my hair, which I do in a panic. I put on my makeup and look at the clock, seven fifteen. Sandy helps me put the dress on over my head, being careful not to knock my hair or get make up on the fabric.

“I’m going to return it tomorrow,” I tell her
.

Remarkably, the dress fits perfectly.

“How did he know?”

Sandy chuckles mischievously.

“Did he ask you?”

She shrugs with a goofy grin. “I got a call from Harrods.”

I can’t begin to understand the logistics of that but from what little I know of Gregory Ryans, nothing should surprise me.

Sandy helps me put on the jewelry and gloves. She holds my hand as I step into the Louboutins. The dress elegantly trails the floor by an inch at the back.

Sandy gasps with a soft tender smile that reaches her eyes as she turns me to face the floor-length mirror. I watch her reflection as she looks over my hair then the dress and eventually meets my eye. It’s a look I’ve seen before, when she watched my first school play, when she got me ready for my high-school prom. And it’s a look that makes me ask the question I’ve often wondered.

“Wouldn’t you like children, Sandy?”

She wipes invisible fluff from the back of my dress. “I’ve had a child. I’ve watched her grow up and now I get to be her best friend.”

I turn and hug her tightly.

“It feels amazing, Sandy. I can’t believe he bought this for me,” I say, straightening the sides of the dress against my hips.

“He obviously has very good taste.”

“We’re not, you know—”

“Mmm-hmm,” she says, giggling again.

* * *

Jackson is waiting outside as promised and from their brief exchange, it’s clear that Sandy’s uncommon flirtation is reciprocated, a thought that makes me feel both happy and cringy all at once.

Jackson pulls up to the edge of the red carpet around seven forty-five. I’m suddenly nervous. My heart is racing faster than I would have thought humanly possible.

“He’s in there,” I say as Jackson gives me his hand to step out of the Mercedes. He chuckles and I’m instantly embarrassed.

An extravagant gold and mahogany staircase descends from the hotel entrance into a large reception room. I stand at the top searching the crowd of dinner suits and dresses nibbling canapés and sipping champagne from waiters in black buttoned waistcoats and black trousers or skirts. Lights glisten in the regal crystal chandeliers. A female soloist sings soft soul music against her backing band.

I see him. His back is to me but the chill running the length of my spine tells me it’s him. He turns. His eyes meet mine and I’m breathless. There’s only him in the room. He moves his right hand to his chest and opens his mouth as if about to speak. My legs continue to move me forward down the staircase, my mind elsewhere. I blink and he’s gone, as if he’d been a figment of my imagination. I’m almost at the bottom of the staircase, desperate to find him again. I watch my satin shoe as I take the last step down.

When I look up, he’s there, in his dinner suit and black bow tie, his dark hair slicked back.

“You’re stunning,” he says, his hand still pressed against his chest.

I feel the smile spread across my entire face.

“Thank you for the dress.”

“God, you’re welcome,” he whispers, bending to kiss me on the cheek.

His lips send fire through my veins. I close my eyes and liquefy under his touch, surrounded by his masculine scent.

Gregory leads me back to his group. Williams has brought Amanda and they appear in every way to be the perfect couple, his easy manner, her smiles, her royal blue sculpted dress and dazzling auburn hair. She’s barely an inch from his side as they laugh with the others.

“Scarlett, you already know Williams, Lawrence and, of course, Amanda. This is my mother, Lara,” Gregory says.

Lara grabs me with her champagne-free arm and kisses me on both cheeks. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Scarlett,” she says, in a strong South African accent. “How are you?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lara,” I say, slightly startled by her overly friendly greeting and processing that word,
finally
. “I’m very well, thank you.”

I glance at Gregory, who seems to purposefully avoid my eyes. Lawrence wraps an arm around Lara’s waist. “Shall we take our seats?”

“Okay, darling.” Lara floats away from us, her movements the epitome of elegance. Her long, demure black dress trailing the floor as she moves. Her brunette chignon exposes her neck and emphasises the length of her slim body.

The gentlemen—Gregory, Lawrence, Williams and another business partner of Gregory’s—take their seats at the table in unison after the ladies.

“Lawrence and your mum?” I whisper to Gregory as he takes his seat next to me.

Gregory leans back as two waiters simultaneously place a napkin in his lap and a bread roll on his side plate. “They’ve been together since I was ten.”

“Ten! What’s next? Williams is your brother and your mum really owns Sea People International?”

Gregory glares at me then shakes his head. Lara thankfully interrupts as I mentally chastise myself for being too familiar and remind myself that I’m taking dinner with my client. Except, I’ve never sat next to a client and struggled to concentrate on my next move. I’ve never sat next to a client and had to force my hands not to reach out and touch him. I’ve never had to squeeze my pulsing thighs shut beneath the dinner table because I’m thinking about how my client would feel inside me.

Lara leads the table in good spirited conversation. Her easy manner is catching. Between that and the wine flowing, I start to relax. Playful jibes pass across the table between the men, including Gregory. It’s nice to see a small chink in his otherwise stoic armour.

“A toast,” Lara announces, holding up her glass, “to having my favourite men at one table. You all look dashingly handsome. And to the gorgeous ladies, it’s a pleasure to have you here. Scarlett, Amanda, welcome.”

We all stand to clink glasses.

“For the record, Williams is not my brother,” Gregory whispers to me. “But he is my oldest friend. He was my first friend when we moved to England.”

Gregory catches his oldest friend’s eye and subtly raises a glass to the air. Williams inclines his head with a smile and similarly raises his own glass.

A waitress places a plate of foie gras, with the smallest amount of rocket salad and a slice of Melba toast, in front of me and my wine glass is topped up again.

“As for my mother, she designs bags,” he says, leaning toward my ear. He pauses to sip his wine then continues, this time loud enough for his mother to hear. “She’s incredibly talented but she doesn’t have a particularly business-savvy mind.”

Lara fakes a shocked gasp. “You take that back, young man!”

He smiles. A true and shockingly handsome smile. Another side to Mr. Gregory Ryans.

Amanda regales the table with tales of our time at university. I give her the playful warning eye but she knows which stories she can tell and where to draw the line. On more than one occasion, I find myself defending my inebriated dancing at formal dinners and unintentionally inappropriate comments to our professors.

What can I say, I liked the challenge.

“You should see her bust out the moves to ‘Mr. Brightside.’” Amanda tells everyone.

I almost choke on my wine as I remember the moves and Amanda sings the lyrics. Despite the company, my head flicks back as I laugh at my friend.

“Bruising your feet to The Killers is a right of passage,” I say.

When I’m composed, I notice Gregory watching me intently, a look that resonates in all my sensitive spots. I take a punt. It could be disastrous. It certainly is inappropriate. I lean in to his ear and pause to inhale his deadly scent before I speak. “Since we’re sharing tonight, I want to put you straight on something. Today, you referred to me as a girl who once read a textbook. You were right about the textbook but you were wrong to call me a girl.”

I linger there, at his neck, both to shield my blushes and to ask myself what in the hell that little show was. I’m there long enough to hear his subtle hitch of breath.

After pudding, an enormous cheese board is placed in the middle of the table. I press both hands to the bones of my dress and confirm that I really can’t fit anything else beneath them. A waiter hands a decanter of port to Lawrence.

“Pass the port!” Lawrence announces. “The decanter doesn’t touch the table until it’s empty.”

When the port reaches me, I fill my glass and take a sip. “I really can’t eat or drink anything else,” I whisper to Gregory. “Perhaps get me a size up next time?”

“Next time?” he grins, raising one eyebrow.

I give him my best moody pout. He shuffles, straightens his trousers and leans back in his seat. His leg rests against mine. I’m acutely aware of each curve of my body. Alcohol is making me confident...or stupid. I push back against him with my leg and watch his seemingly impassive face. My arm moves before my mind can think to stop it and my hand rests on his thigh beneath the table. His lips part and he seems to pause momentarily before he puts his fingers gently on the nape of my neck and slowly begins trailing them down my back. My eyes close as I lean into his touch.

“Gregory, would you treat your mum to a dance to her favourite song?” Lara asks.

Gregory and I each snap our hands away from the other. He half smiles at me, then stands, taking his mother’s hand in his and leads her to the dance floor. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Air slowly creeps back into my chest.

Amanda whisks Williams away to dance to the Rat Pack tribute band, leaving Lawrence to ask me to partner. I, of course, oblige. I’m impressed by Lawrence’s slightly offbeat but nimble dancing. His pace is similar to my father’s. They both seemingly have one set tempo counting in their mind as they move, ignorant to the beat of the music. I fall relatively easily into Lawrence’s mistimed steps and we move in stagnated circles.

“Is this awkward for you?” I ask.

“Why? Should it be?”

“Well, it’s just that I’m your legal advisor and—”

“Scarlett, even an old fool like me can see that Gregory hasn’t brought you here as a legal advisor.”

I pull away from him and twirl under his arm, my cheeks ablaze.

“So you’re like a father to him?” I ask, returning my free hand to his left shoulder.

“As much as I can be. Gregory’s a man. He’s always been much older than his age. He had to grow up quickly.”

“Why’s that?”

“I think that’s his story to tell.” He pushes me away, turning under his arm again. “He’s a good man, Scarlett, the best. He’ll move the earth for the people he loves.”

“Can I cut in?” Gregory says, standing to our side, his legs parted and strong, his shoulders broad, his hands folded behind his back.

Lawrence raises the back of my hand to his mouth then passes it to Gregory. His hand is big but his hold gentle when it wraps around mine. He runs his other hand from the bare flesh between my shoulder blades down to the small of my back and pulls me close to him. My legs are locked either side of his, my left thigh pressed up against his right. I stare at our touching thighs and inhale a nervous breath. He gently lifts my chin with his index finger until I’m gazing into his hypnotic browns. We stand like this until I realise that everyone in the room can probably read my thoughts and must know that, despite my better judgment, I’ve unequivocally fallen for this man.

His shoulders rise and fall with his breath, then he begins to turn us, slowly at first, growing faster with the music, Frank Sinatra’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” He leads me into each step, never missing a beat. We turn faster and faster still, until the room is spinning and everything except his face is a blur. I’m flying and there’s no one else in the room but the two of us. I relax into his hold, allowing him to move me. My head tips back as I laugh, genuinely happy. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than in his solid arms.