‘Is he what?’ I ask, my mind still in the bathroom.
‘Ugly.’
‘No. He’s not.’Sadly.‘He’s hot.’
‘What kind of hot? Henry Cavill kind of hot or Tom Hiddleston kind of smoking?’
‘He’s definitely more Loki than Superman, for sure.’ But he’s really neither of these. He’s the debonair villain in a film noir. The irascible rake in a regency story. ‘It might’ve been easier if he was ugly.’ Or less straightforward. Less intriguing. Because, let’s face it, it wasn’t just his looks. ‘I might not have ended up in that position at all.’
‘Ooh, positions. Kinky.’
‘Clumsy, more like. We were in the back seat of a car, remember those days?’ While I’m seven colours of angry and twelve more colours of confused about last night, I’m also painting a picture that isn’t quite true. I might have ended up sprawled across the leather in a less than ladylike manner, but nothing about Beckett’s moves was unpractised. ‘As for kinky, unless this is some kind of serious delayed gratification thing, I think not.’
‘He left you high and dry and didn’t even share his name.’ Reggie’s words echo my thoughts. ‘What a douche. What will you do if you see him again?’
‘I’ll be sure to run the other way.’
We both fall quiet before Reggie begins to speak quite animatedly.
‘I think I’ve got it! Maybe that’s his kink—getting you all hot under the collar, then withholding the D.’
Beckett was contained and certainly controlled, but I’m pretty sure that’s not why he left me in the car feeling cheap.
‘Like a ten-dollar whore,’ I grate out some time later as I scrub nonexistent stains from the kitchen worktops, anger having manifested itself as an urge to clean. ‘Asshole. Big footed, big dicked, small-minded asshole.’
Because that’s the conclusion I’ve come to. The only kind of coming I’ve come near to, so to speak.
‘The man couldn’t cope with a woman content in her own skin. A woman who owned her sexuality was a threat to him. There!’ With a decisive nod, I tell myself I’m right, and that the worktops are clean enough. On to the bathroom!
At least the energy from my sexual frustration is being put to good use.
Chapter 8
OLIVIA
Another Monday, another very important morning meeting, and another last-minute dash. This time, I blame the Uber driver for not knowing there’d be traffic on this route.
‘Are you sure you can’t take a shortcut?’
‘Madam, I have been in this country less than three months. I think it entirely better if we stick to the suggested route.’
‘But I’m going to be late.’
I’m trying not to be a bitch, despite feeling bitchy. If Friday night was enough to make me turn into a mega bitch, this morning’s experiences have sent that bitch stratospheric. First, Jorge, the developer on staff, rang to say he’s discovered a glitch in the E-Volve back end. It’s going to be offline for an hour, which is a pain in the ass as I’d planned on demonstrating its use this morning at my meeting.
‘But late is always better than never,’ the driver advises with a sage waggle of his head. ‘Do you know that the traffic collision rate in Delhi is forty times higher than it is in London? Forty times!’ To emphasise his point, he bangs his hand on the steering wheel.
‘Oh, really?’ I answer, sitting back in my seat because straining forward isn’t going to get me there any faster. But it is giving me neckache.
‘One death every hour!’ he pontificates, his index finger held aloft. ‘I bless the good Lord for bringing me out of such a deathly place, and I will do my very, very best to keep my passengers safe.’
‘I’m sure,’ I murmur, my eyes sliding to the side window. No sunshine today, but I’m not taking that as a bad omen, even as the rain begins to dash against the windows.And even if I can’t throw off the funk that’s lingered all weekend.As the driver continues his sermon, I consider leaving him a less than a stellar five stars before deciding I could do without a karmic hit.
It seems to take forever to get where I need to be, and despite figuring in extra time, I’m arriving once again by the skin of my teeth. With a quick thanks, I hop out of the car and make a dash for the steps, holding my three-year-old Burberry trench coat over my head as the rain shower becomes a deluge. On Friday, I arrived at the building sweaty because of the heat and my rushing, but this time, anxiety is to blame as a cold sweat breaks out against my skin. Also, my shoes are wet.
Once inside the building, I shake out my coat, folding it inside out, then drape it over my arm. As I make my way to the behemoth front desk, I run my hand down my thigh, nervously straightening the wrinkles where the material of my skirt has pulled tight.
‘Olivia Welland. I have an appointment with Mark Jones of Jones, Beckett, and Wright.’
