No, no, no to social occasions with the sexy as sin billionaire.
I nod in uncomfortable acquiescence. The shift of my head lands my gaze on that alluring crotch again.
‘Settled then,’ Williams declares.
Gregory takes the lead through the bar to leave. I’d bet he makes love the way he moves that fine, sculpted South African arse through the bar… with the grace of a gazelle and the command, pounce and salacious bite of a lion. He glances back over his shoulder and flashes that agonising half-smile once more.
Dear God.
The doorman dips his head as he opens the door. Gregory steps to one side and gestures for me to walk ahead of him. Almost immediately as we step on to the pavement, a black Mercedes pulls up to the kerb. The driver is a burly man in a black suit and white shirt. The veins of his hands bulge under his dark skin and his shaved head shows a few remnants of black hair amongst grey stubs. He looks good for his age but given I’d put money on him being ex-forces of some sort; he can’t be under forty. He holds open the rear passenger door and Gregory steps to one side as I climb in, followed by Williams and Amanda, still giggling at each other. Gregory walks around the back of the car and takes a seat up front next to the driver.
‘Where are we going?’ Amanda asks excitedly. ‘Nowhere expensive, I hope. My pops is already bailing me out this month.’
‘Again?’ I ask.
‘I needed new work clothes,’ she reasons. ‘He’s talking about stopping my monthly allowance.’
‘You still get a monthly allowance?’ Gregory and I ask in unison.
He shifts in his seat to look at me and smiles. It’s an easy, soft, gentle smile. Uncommon, I’d bet, and undeniably attractive.
‘I’m a single girl living in the city. A two bed in Camden doesn’t come cheap. He can’t cut me off.’
‘We’re interrupting your evening,’ Williams says. ‘The least we can do is pay for dinner.’
‘Absolutely not!’ I protest. ‘Thank you for the offer but you’re clients of ours. It would be our pleasure to buy you dinner.’
‘This isn’t a business meeting, Scarlett,’ Amanda scolds me, then bats her eyelashes at Williams.
‘Amanda—’ I attempt.
‘Ladies don’t pay,’ Gregory speaks, this time without turning in his seat. His voice is stern and although I feel entirely belittled, I know the discussion is over.
I fight my usual inclination to counterargue, but smoulder beneath my skin and resign to watch passersby through the window without saying another word for the rest of the journey. Ladies don’t pay. It occurs to me that I’ve heard my dad use that turn of phrase before. The thought softens my prickly mood just enough to allow me to remember that I’m in the company of clients. If only Amanda could behave herself, just this once.
She’s very much in her comfort zone, merrily chatting and flirting outrageously with Williams. Amanda’s always on the prowl for a wealthy man who could allow her to be a lady of leisure. We had endless conversations at Cambridge about Amanda wanting that kind of life – lunching at fine establishments like The Beverley and having beauty treatments in the afternoon, like her mother. Amanda suffers from stereotypical OCS – Only Child Syndrome – but she has a good heart and I love her for having the conviction to be herself, to do what she wants to do and not what others expect of her. Reading my mind, she reaches for my hand, gently squeezing it in hers, and giving me a knowing smirk that amuses me enough to improve my mood 100 per cent.
The Mercedes slows to a stop outside Heron Tower, the glass structure looming over us so tall, it’s impossible see the top, even craning my neck. I reach into my bag for my purse but Williams puts his hand over mine to stop me.
Gregory inclines his head in thanks to the driver. ‘Jackson.’
Of course, he has a personal driver. Who doesn’t?
Jackson opens my door first. Gregory’s already waiting on the pavement. He offers his hand to help me out of the car. I hesitate but take it to be polite. The kiss of his palm drives a hot sensation all over my body, unsteadying me enough that I have to I put my spare hand on the first thing it touches for support. That first thing happens to be Jackson’s shoulder, and he’s mocking me with his eyes. I suspect he’s seen Gregory’s effect on women countless times. ‘Sorry, Jackson. Thank you.’
‘You’re more than welcome, Miss Heath.’ His voice is a deep, masculine rumble but there’s humour in it, too.
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, signalling for me to walk ahead of him onto the short, red carpet laid out to welcome guests.
‘The fourth tallest building in London. Nice choice, Mr Ryans.’
His eyes narrow but there’s a ghost of a smug smile creasing the sides of his perfectly plump mouth. 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 a similarly dressed maître d’. ‘Good evening,’ he says to me. ‘It is wonderful to see you again, Mr Ryans.’
