Authors: Jane O'Reilly
Lottie blinked. ‘You don’t need to stand in the way. I’m not going to run off. Not in these heels.’
‘Running off would be a bad idea.’ He glanced down at her feet. ‘I think I’ll come with you, make sure you don’t trip on the stairs. Unless, of course, you’d rather rejoin the conference?’
‘No.’ A shudder worked its way through her body. ‘No, I really don’t want to go back there.’
‘That makes two of us.’
The stairs weren’t steep, but Lottie set her hand firmly on the hand rail, her legs as trustworthy as a tube station pickpocket. ‘You made yourself perfectly clear, Mr Blakemore,’ she said, keeping her gaze firmly on the floor, on the shining steel edge of the million steps that spiralled away in front of her. ‘I got the message.’
He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘I guess you did. Can I ask you something?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Why were you at the conference?’
‘Oh, you know. Networking.’
‘And how did that work out for you?’
‘Disastrously.’ Lottie forced the word out, her left foot hovering over the next step. ‘I can honestly tell you it was the worst idea I’ve had in months. And I’m saying that as someone who bought an electric home waxing kit in the January sales.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s network. I own clubs—12 in total, shortly to be 13. My new place opens in Mayfair in a month.’
‘That’s a pretty classy location.’
‘Believe it or not, I’m a pretty classy guy. Now it’s your turn.’
Lottie pulled in a breath. ‘What is this?’ she asked, flattening her back against the railing. ‘Are you a twin, or do you have some sort of personality disorder? Because I could swear the guy I met before was a total sleazoid, and you’re almost human.’
He had the decency to blush, highlighting those sharp cheekbones, making his eyes look even more intense. It looked good on him. She wished it didn’t.
‘You know who I am,’ he said, matter of fact. ‘It goes without saying you know my mother is Marlene Blakemore. The problem with having a famous parent is that you become a commodity. People use me to get to her, women especially. And nothing scares them off quicker than the suggestion of a dirty fumble in a cleaning cupboard, unless of course they want a fumble in a cleaning cupboard so they can sell that story.’
Lottie followed the logic of this in shocked disbelief. ‘Did it ever occur to you that a woman might want a fumble in a cleaning cupboard for another reason?’
Those baby blues flashed. ‘Such as?’
This was ridiculous. ‘I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Either way, I didn’t come here so I could have sex with you in a cleaning cupboard. It was nice to meet you, Mr Blakemore. I suggest you see a therapist before you try talking to a woman again though.’
And then he did something unexpected. He smiled. He could wipe out whole civilisations with that smile, she thought, as her knees reacted to it, despite her brain screaming at them not to. It was wide and slightly lopsided, and set perfect little creases into his cheeks. A million-dollar smile, taken off the big screen and put right in front of her. How any woman was supposed to remain upright when faced with that was beyond her, but she managed it. Just.
‘So why are you here?’ he pressed, digging blunt fingers into the knot of his tie and easing it free. ‘Other than for the food, obviously.’
‘You won’t like the answer,’ Lottie told him.
His perfectly sculpted jaw hardened, and all traces of that smile vanished. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think I would.’
‘I work for Spencer’s Auction House,’ she said, the words unexpectedly painful. ‘We…I heard a rumour that your mother is looking to sell a few items. I came here to try to find out if it’s true.’
‘And if it is?’
‘Then I’d try to persuade you to get her to sell through us. Obviously we both know I’d be wasting my time.’
Tightening her grip on the handrail, Lottie moved to the side and negotiated the next step. And the next one.
One large hand locked onto her right shoulder and stopped her. ‘Just tell me one thing. How did you find out?’
If he slid his index finger a fraction further in, he’d be able to feel the pulse in her neck. And no way did he need to know how fast it was going. Lottie pulled in a sharp breath and desperately willed herself to lie. She failed. ‘Marlene had a meeting with a specialist at Christie’s last Thursday. I know someone who works for them. He talked.’
The pressure from his hand increased. ‘So you thought you’d put his job at risk by acting on that information.’
Guilt poked her, but she refused to let it in. ‘This is a cut-throat business, Mr Blakemore. Was Spencer’s under consideration?’
His hand dropped away. ‘Not that I’m aware of, no.’
‘And why would it be? The business is a mess. The building needs a six-figure makeover for starters.’ Awkwardly negotiating another step of the endlessly curling staircase, Lottie pressed herself tightly against the side to let a harassed looking woman in a black trouser suit dash past. ‘We’re losing staff hand over fist, and most of the stuff coming through the door isn’t even fit for the charity shop. We’re hardly what you’d call high end. Not any more.’ She huffed out a sigh. It had hurt to put those facts into words and say them out loud. ‘I’ve never been to a conference before, and I totally screwed it up. I called you a creep, for goodness’s sake. What sort of an idiot does that?’
‘I was acting like a creep.’
‘That’s beside the point. I should have handled it. But did I? No. How am I ever going to survive in business if I can’t handle a bit of inappropriate flirting?’
‘I’m probably going to regret this,’ he said, ‘but come for a drink with me and I’ll tell you.’
‘This is your place?’ Lottie ducked her head under the curtain of plastic sheeting that he held up, and stepped through into a vast space, illuminated by huge electric spotlights that were dotted around on the floor.
It was part space ship, part building site but she could see what the finished product would be. A sparkling, futuristic centre of hedonism. A little shiver tiptoed its way down her spine as he followed her through.
‘Two floors,’ he said, ‘plus VIP areas. Four separate bars. Capacity is about 1500. I don’t like to overcrowd the place. Keep it lower, makes it feel more exclusive, more intimate.’
‘Fifteen hundred is intimate?’
‘In a place this size, yes.’
Lottie tucked her bag under her arm as she moved slowly into the space, crossing what she assumed would be the dance floor. Quiet echoed around them, and she wondered why he had brought her here. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him standing by the entrance, hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze intent on her.
She couldn’t figure him out. But she wanted to. ‘So where’s this drink you offered me?’ She picked her way through a maze of paint pots, toes burning, and tried not to wince. It hadn’t been so bad on the tube, where she’d been lucky enough to get a seat, but her shoes were now on serious overtime. She’d give anything for a pair of trainers right now.
Another step forward, and an arrow of pain shot up her leg and her ankle flexed dangerously. Time to give up on trying to look good, Lottie decided. It wasn’t as if she could impress him anyway. Bending down, she fixed her palm to the heel of her left shoe and was about to slip it off when a hand settled on her shoulder.
‘Why do women always take their shoes off in a nightclub?’ he asked, and there was a soft stroke of amusement in his voice. ‘It’s asking for trouble.’
Lottie straightened up, found herself side by side with him. The sleeve of his beautifully cut charcoal-grey suit brushed her arm, and she felt the touch like a jolt of electricity. Was this the good twin she was talking to now, or the bad one? ‘Because our feet hurt,’ she told him, trying not to wince.
‘You need to keep them on. There could be all sorts on the floor. Nails, that sort of thing. And it won’t look good if I get an onsite injury before the place has even opened.’
‘I guess not.’
She glanced around, trying to find something close by that she could sit on. Anything. On the far side of the space, what she assumed would be the bar snaked along the wall, the shelves behind it empty, underneath a network of dangling wires. A couple of plastic chairs sat near one end, but they seemed a mile away.
Lottie bit the inside of her cheek, and tried to figure out what to do for the best. Maintaining her dignity was high on her list of priorities, but she wasn’t sure if she could. It had been manageable back at City Hall, when she had been too busy being cross to fully acknowledge her awareness of him. But here, in this empty cavern, there was no place to hide from her thoughts. Her naughty, indecent thoughts.
‘Do me a favour,’ Josh said, interrupting those thoughts with that low, crisp voice. ‘Close your eyes for a second, and try to pretend that you don’t think I’m a creep.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Lottie replied. She lowered her lashes, but not all the way, wondering what on earth he was up to. Her skin prickled, and she found herself holding onto her bag a little too tightly. She reminded herself that they’d come here to talk, and she still had plenty to ask.
‘Close your eyes,’ he said again.
This time she did as she was told, and the prickle gave way to a little tingle of awareness. She could sense him moving closer. No, she thought suddenly. No, this is…
Lottie made herself drink in some air and tried to remember the life-changing gem she’d picked out of the self-help book that was propped open on the little white table at the side of her bed. Visualise your place of safety. Her desk. Her computer. The door of her office, firmly closed. She put herself there.
And then her feet left the floor.
She opened her eyes and found his face only inches from hers. One arm was tucked under her knees, the other around her waist. Slipping her arms round his neck was instinctive, easy. He didn’t look at her, instead made his way across to the bar, setting her back on her feet next to one of the chairs.
Lottie sank down into it, not quite sure what had just happened. Okay, she knew exactly what had just happened. She’d just been picked up and carried across the room like something from a romantic film. Her pulse was frantic, her body on sensory overload as her brain worked through all the new discoveries, like the way he smelled close up, how the skin on his jaw was already starting to shadow, how silky his hair had felt when her fingers had accidentally brushed against it, how heart-stoppingly strong he was.
She kicked off her shoes and watched him move behind the half-finished bar. He opened a fridge and rummaged through it. ‘I’ve got water,’ he said. ‘Sparkling and still. Then various sodas and juices. No champagne, I’m afraid.’
He sounded so normal. ‘Water,’ Lottie managed. ‘Water is fine.’
The bottle fizzed as he uncapped it, tipped some into a mug and pushed it in her direction. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Tell me why my mother should sell her stuff through you.’
Josh drank straight from the bottle, watching as she fiddled around with the mug, then set it back on the bar. She stretched out her legs and wiggled her toes, which were dainty and battered looking. ‘Spencer’s offers first-class service to all clients. We like to think we treat each client not only as an individual, but as a friend, and we feel the same about all the antiques that we sell. We offer a competitive rate of fees, and use all available methods of promotion, including the internet.’
Josh rolled his eyes. ‘You really pull in business with that speech? It’s lame.’
She tucked her feet under the chair and eyed him from under those long, dark lashes. ‘You think you can do better?’
‘Probably,’ he admitted with a grin. ‘But I don’t want the marketing spiel. You told me the business was in trouble.’
‘It is.’ She picked up her mug, took a small swallow, then rolled it between her palms. ‘The last couple of years have been particularly tough. Auction websites are killing us.’
‘And you’re desperate to keep it going.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘You could say that.’ She set the mug down, lifted her hands to her hair and did something to it that made it look slightly less of a mess.
Josh wondered why she didn’t just take it down. He’d like her to take it down, he realised, and knew then that he was heading into dangerous territory. Problem was, he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his distance. She’d called him a creep. He couldn’t help admiring her for it.
‘The auction house has been in my family for a really, really long time,’ she said. ‘My great-granddad opened it. My dad inherited it when I was four. He met my mum when she sold some of her aunt’s jewellery. I can’t just let it close. When I found out that your mother…’ she paused, and clenched her hands together. ‘When I heard that she was selling some of her memorabilia, I thought this is it, this is my big chance. I didn’t take a second to think any further than that.’
Her chin dropped to her chest, and she pulled in a breath. ‘I didn’t think about how it would look to you, having some total stranger use you to get to her. I’m really sorry. It’s a scummy thing to do.’
Josh set the palms of his hands flat on the top of the bar. The brushed steel was cold and hard, in stark contrast to the soft, warm woman sat opposite. No-one had ever said that to him before. No-one had ever said they were sorry. It was an odd feeling. He liked it.
Then her head jerked up. ‘How did you know I was there to see you, anyway?’
‘You kept looking at me.’
‘You kept looking at me,’ she pointed out. ‘Takes two to tango, mister.’
‘You’re very pretty,’ Josh said. ‘What did you expect?’
Her mouth opened then closed again, and her cheeks went pink, but she didn’t say anything.
‘Am I edging back into creep territory?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘To be honest, you are so ridiculously good looking that my brain is a little scrambled right now. That’s why I couldn’t talk to you back at the conference. I just…you make me nervous. That’s all.’
‘And then I came over and acted like a total jerk.’
I couldn’t figure you out,’ she admitted. ‘You weren’t what I expected at all.’