‘Scarlett, I wonder if you could help me with something tonight.’ His relaxed tone takes me by surprise. The man is up and down like a bloody jack-in-the-box. ‘I have to attend a charity gala. It’s black tie, a bit of an extravagant affair, but there are some big business names that I have to be seen to speak with.’ His expression suggests there are a million places he’d rather be going. ‘Someone had to pull out at the last minute and we could use another female to balance the table numbers. It’d be a good opportunity for you to make some contacts, I think. Would you come along?’
‘Oh. I – I actually have other plans,’ I say sheepishly.
He cocks his head to one side. ‘You do?’
‘Yes, I, erm, I’m, I…’ Holy shit, Gregory Ryans in black tie. As he seems to have the ability to do, he reduces my mind to a jumble of incoherent thoughts and my body into a sex-crazed frenzy of babbling nonsense. ‘It does sound like a good, erm, opportunity. Thank you all the same, but?—’
Damn my stunned synapses. I need to think up and articulate an excuse that will be 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 defenceless 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 quartz watch.
‘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. ‘I’m sorry, Gregory, 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 forwards as if we’re the only people in the room.
‘I want you.’
My lungs empty. I look straight up through my lashes to see his determined 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.’
Fuck.
9
Frantic and sweaty thanks to running from the Tube, I bound up the stairs and straight into my dad’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 towards my bedroom.
‘All right, 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 smiles. ‘A lovely man dropped them for you earlier. Geoffrey Jackson he said his name is. Mr Ryans’ driver, apparently. Quite a dish.’
I raise an eyebrow at the unusual sight of Sandy animated over a man. She 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 similarly 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 make-up and look at the clock: seven-fifteen. I’m already late. Sandy helps me put the dress on over my head, being careful not to knock my hair or get make-up on the fabric.
