The song ends, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is the feel of her body against mine, the heat of her skin seeping through the thin fabric of her dress.
When she finally pulls back, I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to conceal the hard ridge of my cock tenting my trousers. But from the way her eyes flick down, then quickly back up, she’s as aware of it as I am.
“Let’s get a drink,” I suggest gruffly, needing to put some physical distance between us.
She follows wordlessly as I lead the way to the bar and order us drinks.
As the bartender sets our whiskies down, I stiffen at the sight of Harrington across the room, laughing it up with the Whitmores, patting each other on the back like old pals.
“They seem friendly,” Gemma observes neutrally, following my gaze.
I down half my drink in one go. “The older guy with them is Harrington’s old man. He and Whitmore go way back, all the way to their Oxbridge days. They’re all part of the same blue-blooded club.”
She looks up at me as I throw back the rest of my glass. “And you’re not in their club?”
“Not exactly. Sir Whitmore might like to play the benevolent lord, helping the poor and downtrodden, but he sure as hell doesn’t want the likes of me taking over his precious company.”
“You’re not exactly destitute, Liam.”
“Maybe not, but I’m not one of them either. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”
“But you and Alastair went to school together, right?”
“We may have attended the same institution,” I start, my grip tightening on my empty glass, “but believe me, Harrington and I come from very different worlds. He’s a spoiled little rich boy who’s never had to fight for a damn thing in his life.”
“Why is there so much animosity between you two?”
I exhale a rough sigh. “Let’s just say we didn’t see eye to eye.”
I’m not getting into this shit. Not here. Not with my employee. Even if it is Gemma, who’s usually got her head on straight.
“Wow, don’t kill yourself over-explaining,” she snarks. “Is that really all you’re going to give me?”
“Perhaps there’s nothing else I want my staff knowing about my personal life,” I reply, an edge creeping into my voice.
Her face tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “You want my help in landing this deal. Vertex is bidding too. You and Alastair have some deep-seated history, a personal vendetta. I can’t strategize effectively if I don’t understand the key players’ motivations. You need to loop me in on what went down between you two.”
My jaw clenches. She’s not wrong, as much as I hate to admit it.
“Let’s just say Alastair made it known to everyone at that boarding school who I was and where I belonged in the pecking order,” I grit out. “Which was firmly beneath the dirt on his overpriced loafers.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. “Because you weren’t born rich like the rest of them? What an elitist.”
“He had a whole host of reasons to make my life hell. Hated that I had the audacity to outscore him academically. That I kept wiping the floor with him on the rugby pitch. That I had the attention of all the pretty girls he wanted to nail.” I smirk, the memories fueling my resolve.
“Is that why you were flirting with his wife?” she asks, arching a knowing brow.
I stiffen. “I’ve known Vicky for years.”
Those green eyes search my face. “Did you . . . used to date her?”
“I wouldn’t call it that,” I reply tightly, my tone conveying just how thrilled I am with this game of 20 Questions. “Now drop it. I mean it.”
I push off the bar, eyes locked on Alastair and his fan club. One way or another, I’m going to make Whitmore see that I’m the only man for this deal.
Seeing Harrington cozying up to Whitmore . . . it’s a reminder of the one area where that posh prick’s always had me beat—being liked.
But Alastair fucking Charles Harrington will not win this one. He thinks he’s got this deal locked down, that he can waltz in and charm everyone with his posh accent and his Oxford pedigree.
