Chapter Eight
THE EXCELLENTtapas sat, barely touched, in a collection of eclectically decorated bowls. The oil had started to separate into a thin film and puddled in the gaped shells of mussels.
“The Bailey Group isn’t going to do business in the UK anymore,” Joe said as he lifted the glass of wine. Bea had refilled it with the deceptively easy-on-the-palate sweet red… three times.He paused for a second, the rim of the glass cold against his lip, as he weighed the wisdom of another drink. His drive home was already arranged, and Cal could carry him in if he needed the help. The thought if it—Cal’s arm around Joe’s waist, his throat bare to Joe’s eager mouth, and the eyes of the hotel on them—curled heat in Joe’s chest. He took a long swallow of wine to quench it, not that itworked, and gave Bea a thin smile. “We won’t need a law firm on retainer.”
She leaned back in her chair, her arm braced on the low, curved back, and gave a careless, one-shouldered shrug. Her perfectly red matte lips curved in a slow, easy smile. “You’ll still do business in Europe.”
He gave her a dry look. “And how much use will an English law firm be for that?”
The practiced charm of herexpression slid into genuine amusement as she tilted her head to the side in acknowledgment of his point. She reached over the table and plucked a spiced olive from the bowl to pop between her lips. At a nearby table, hunched over a tablet, a thin woman watched the show through her long, auburn hair with discreet interest. At least, Joe thought dryly, someone appreciated the moment… but not enoughto distract her from her work as she tapped her fingers over the keyboard on the bright screen.
“I understand,” she said. “Your father’s made his position clear. What about yours?”
Joe raised his eyebrows at her. “What makes you think it differs from his??”
She paused as she studied him from under her lashes and licked the oil from her fingertips. “Because your father has had a stroke and wouldrather divest business holdings than turn over control to you,” she said. “I did my research when the partners asked me to court your father back, Joe. You’ve proven your value to your father’s company over and over, with negotiated mergers, hostile takeovers, headhunted investment opportunities. Yet here you are, left to put the chairs up and lock the door behind him. I’d have, let’s call themfeelings, on that.”
She wasn’t wrong. Joe had tried for years to impress Harry, had tried to prune away all the bits of him that he thought would keep that approval away, and the last few months had proven it hadn’t worked. Harry didn’t trust Joe with the truthorthe business.
“The plans to close our British holdings were already in progress before my father’s stroke. If anything, that delayedthe process,” Joe said. As if on cue, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and checked it with a quick glance down at the screen. Then he turned his attention back to Bea. “And I had my own reasons to want to come to the UK.”
It was another text from Edward. Joe wasn’t in the mood to deal with them.
Bea raised her eyebrows at him as though he’d admitted something. “See? That soundslike something I could help with.”
Joe studied Bea over the neglected spread. There was something uncompromising about her colorful, glossy dress, a probably false sense that this was the real Bea and not a socially accepted lawyer suit that she presented to the world. It made Joe want to like her, to believe her offer of assistance. The fact that it wasn’t selfless made it more convincing.
Or maybe that was the wine.
Joe put his glass down and gently pushed it away until it bumped into one of the bowls.
“Why don’t you let me think about that,” he said. “In the meantime, draw up all the required contracts for the sale of our properties. I have an engagement next week with the buyers, and I want everything ready.”
“I’s dotted and t’s crossed?” Bea asked.
“Exactly.”
She sighedand gestured her surrender. They chatted a few moments longer as she finished her wine and insisted the firm had the check, and then Joe finally got up to leave. He pulled his jacket on and the tailored fabric settled over his shoulders. Then he extended his hand.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I’ll keep your offer in mind.”
She shook it briskly, the earlier linger of her long, warmfingers abandoned. “Do,” she said. “I’m an excellent solicitor.”
Joe turned to leave and nearly tripped over the red-haired woman who’d watched Bea eat. Her drink splashed down his shirt, red against the white. She caught his elbow with one hand and apologized as she swiped at his chest with a bundle of tissues.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to turn around so quickly. God, I’msuch a klutz. Send me the bill for the dry cleaning.”
Her clumsy swabs at the wide, pink stain pressed against the bruises left on Joe’s stomach from the graveyard. They had already started to fade and blur to green at the edges, but they still ached when poked. Joe winced and blocked her anxious attempt at cleanup.
“I’m fine,” he said with an attempt at an easygoing smile. “It’s fine. Don’tworry about it.”
The woman pushed her hair back from her face and frowned up at him. She was older than he’d thought, Joe realized with surprise. He was usually good at ages, but the hint of fine lines around her eyes and mouth made him revise her age vaguely up from his initial “same age as me” guess.
“It was stupid,” she said. “I wanted to…. I saw Bea, but I didn’t want to interrupt. So whenI saw you were about to leave, I thought I’d nip over. Now look at the mess.”
She poked her fingers against his stomach again in an odd gesture. Joe clenched his teeth and stepped back. He put the chair between them.
“Forget about it,” he told her. “I should have been more careful.”
