They were words that should’ve made me take a step back as if I’d been hit. They were words that were meant to hurt and push someone, anyone, away.
I was too thick skinned to be injured by them. I’d sat in meetings with businessmen who let jibe after jibe fly about what my spas were a front for or what I might do to get a preferential interest rate. I learned never to react or respond. Let them believe what they wanted to, think whatever. The moment anything went in print was when I could unleash my solicitor and hit them where it hurt. It was all a game of chess and I sat continuously on the defensive, waiting, waiting for the slight opening when I could fire my gun.
“I’m not a fan.” It was the truth. I had enjoyed a one night stand with a guy who played bass for him about ten years ago but that guy hadn’t stuck around Leif’s band past one tour. He’d been a session musician and we’d scratched a mutual itch. He’d been the brother of one of my aestheticians.
“So why did you follow me out?” He seemed taller now, his shoulders almost too broad for the jacket he was wearing and I did wonder what it would be like to put my hands on him and push that jacket away.
“Because no one else was bothering to. And I’m human. I like to check that people are okay.”
His eyes were disbelieving. “Well, I’m okay. You can go back to your friends.”
The streak of stubbornness that had always run deep kicked in. “I’d rather see you get back somewhere indoors. Where there isn’t anyone looking for a story. Where are you staying?”
“My home. It’s two streets away.”
We were in Mayfair, so I had a pretty good idea of what his home would look like.
“I don’t invite fans in.” I caught the scent of his cologne. My body liked it. I felt something inside me clench, treacherously.
“I’m not a fan.”
“You were looking at me in the restaurant like you were one and I was your ticket to a story in the Sunday tabloids. Not going to happen, whatever your name is.”
“I’m Sophie Slater.” We were walking now. He wasn’t rushing as if he was trying to get away and we’d left that dark alley. As much bravado as I had, I didn’t really want to be here on my own. Rapists and muggers didn’t discriminate according to postcode.
“Why do I know that name?”
“I own Slaters. The spa chain.”
He stopped and turned to look at me, his hand coming out to grab my arm. It wasn’t a harsh grip or aggressive in any way. More surprise.
“You were in a magazine last week – one of the gossip ones. There was a feature on you inside your house.”
I almost smiled. “That was me. They were celebrating seven self-made women. Wouldn’t have thought it was your reading material.”
“It isn’t. My foster sister was reading it out. She mentioned something about your sofa.” His voice had changed now he kind of knew who I was. Although the woman in the magazine was about as real as he was in a gossip column.
“The plum one.” We were standing outside, discussing a velvet plum sofa. Somewhere a gossip column writer’s heart broke.
“Why didn’t you say who you were?”
Now he was cross.
“Because I don’t consider using my name as the only way to stop men from being arseholes to me and thinking I’m after a fuck so I can sell a story. I came out here because I was genuinely bothered about how you were. You looked wrecked.”
“Is this when you tell me a day in one of your spas would cure me, then you’ve got some extra marketing material?” His voice was a growl.
If I was a woman who slapped people, this would’ve been when the palm of my hand made contact with his face, hopefully with a sharp sting. I wasn’t that woman.
“We don’t market what we do using people’s names. We don’t advertise much at all, because we don’t need to. And I’ll be honest, Liam, your name isn’t one we’d want associating with ours.”
I didn’t see the kiss coming.
I didn’t expect it.
His lips were softer than I expected and his body warmer. His hands went to my hips, his fingers holding on like I was the only buoy that could keep him afloat but then I wasn’t thinking about his hands or anything else, because that kiss was sending me to a place where my senses were overloaded and unable to process anything.
His tongue begged for entry, nudging my lips apart and I gave in, a battle I didn’t want to fight and my hands reached up, one finding his thick hair, the other slightly under his jacket.
