‘I know, but—’
‘But nothing. I have no love for him myself, and I don’t agree with his methods. He’s a weak man, self-indulgent, and full of his own importance. But it blinds him. He underestimated you, just as he’s underestimated me. Rather than indulge in this impotent kind of fury, remember that you now have what you want, and you own it free and clear. You owe him nothing but a little payback, and you can help me serve him that.’
‘By being here tonight.’
‘By playing your part,’ he agrees. ‘And I’ll be by your side every step of the way.’
‘Okay.’ I nod, no less wronged but maybe a little mollified. ‘I can do this.’
‘One more thing. His work and private personas are very different. You might find it hard not to like him. Many do.’
‘I doubt that,’ I reply with a snort.
‘He’s very engaging. A colourful character. A raconteur, as well as an old roué.’
‘Speak English, for goodness’ sake.’ I haven’t got time to google this shit.
‘He’s a bit of a libertine, or he was. These days, he’s happily married to Luke’s mother.’
‘Oh, God. Is Luke going to be here?’
‘I shouldn’t imagine so. But then, I didn’t expect a party. Would that be a problem?’
‘What, you mean if he’s here?’ Cheeks puffed, I blow out a harsh breath. I haven’t seen him since the day in Beckett’s office when we were caught kissing. I don’t know why he looked so betrayed. It’s kind of his fault I was there in the first place. And to think the word I used to describe him was honourable. ‘I suppose it depends what he has to say.’
‘He’s not likely to cause a scene.’
‘He’s not likely to anyway. He has bigger things to concentrate on than me and my anger.’
‘You’d be surprised. Most men would smart over losing you to someone else.’ In a surprisingly tender gesture, he reaches out, cupping my face with his hand.
‘He never had me to begin with.’ At this, Beckett’s gaze darkens, the corner of his mouth kicking up a touch. ‘If he’s in there and tries to speak to me, I’ll cut him with the precision of a grande dame at Almack’s.’
‘That sounds brutal.’
‘Stop smiling. It works in Regency romance books.’ And sounds so much more badass than ignoring his calls and deleting his texts and emails. ‘So, Jones; you’re saying we’re saying he’s a bit of a man whore?’
‘I’m not sure he’d approve of the title. Maybe he used to be, but he’s more like the inappropriate great uncle everyone has. It seems to endear him to those around him.’
‘Right. So he’s a dirty old man with a colourful past and more money than Croesus, and that little fact makes everything okay! Rich people are so weird.’ Beckett shrugs carelessly as my gaze slides to the house again; a glass and steel monument to personal wealth. ‘And if he’s as rich as Croesus, I suppose that makes you as rich as God?’
But none of that matters, not when I’ve an axe to grind.
The door is opened by a young girl in a dark skirt and white shirt. She wears her name on a badge demoting the catering company. People mill around the vast open plan space, the overhead lighting glinting off expensively coloured hair. Champagne glasses in hand, women wear this season’s Gucci and Valentino, their red soled shoes as high as stilts. Gold shines and bling blings, as skinny hipped men in Italian suits ignore the waitstaff but not the free drinks. I look down at my clothing, more Topshop than top of the range designer.Oh well.
Before we’re a more than a couple of metres into the house, our arrival is announced by our host, his shirt almost unbuttoned to the navel. I exaggerate, but it’s hard to tell exactly where the buttons end because of the pelt of white hair sprouting where it opens.
‘Surprise, Beckett, old boy!’
The effect is a sort of scratching needle on vinyl, the whole place seeming to come to a standstill to examine the happy couple. Naturally, Beckett doesn’t seem to notice. Or he’s playing the part of insouciance very well.
‘And, of course, the lovely new Mrs Beckett.’ Mark Jones appears before me, the back of my hand lifted and pressed to his lips, and I wonder if he ever met the first Mrs Beckett. ‘How lovely to see you again.’
‘Mr Jones.’ I smile, hoping it looks better than it feels as his silvery head rises, his blue eyes shrew.
‘Nonsense. Do call me Mark, my dear.’ How about I call you something much worse than that, huh? Worse than an old roué, whatever the hell that means.
‘What’s going on here?’ Beckett’s tone is all business, as usual. ‘This is slightly more than a dinner party.’ But check out the warmer curl to the end as he feigns a sincere sort of surprise.
