The night of Robert Kingsley’s birthday bash is looming large and Catherine has nothing appropriate to wear. Why would she. All she possesses are a few long baggy jumpers that she wears over equally baggy tracky bottoms. All of them purchased from the local Oxfam shop and somehow, she doesn’t see them running to anything that Robert Kingsley’s crowd might be wearing this season to a posh do.
Shame.
For the first time, Catherine enters a fashion boutique. At least, she tries to. One look from the snooty sales clerks has her turning tail before she’s put a second foot in the door of one particularly smart shop. But then her loud cry of “Holy fuck,” as her eyes lighted on a price ticket for a strikingly plain evening dress might have something to do with it. She’ll be more prepared for the next one, she vows.
Staring in the window of another fancy boutique, Catherine decides she just has to get on, do it, and not take any crap from the snobby cows that are no doubt going to earn a whacking great commission at her expense.
And I don’t even want to go to the damn party!
Wiping her damp palms down the sides of her jumper, Catherine enters the lion’s den
. I can do this…
The sales clerk is unexpectedly nice and very helpful, offering advice and suggesting suitable accessories. Feeling that she should at least be honest with someone who is being so nice, Catherine fesses up, “I’ve never even bought a dress before, or a skirt, come to that.”
Why would I?
“Don’t you worry, dear,” the sales clerk smiles warmly, “it took me years to get my daughter into a dress – she was very much a tom-boy right up to her late teens.” Shaking her head at the memory, the sales clerk guides Catherine over to the changing rooms.
Trying on the dress and the dainty shoes in the small cubicle, the sales clerk stifles a chuckle when she hears a plaintive, “Fuck me,” precede the undignified exit of Catherine from one of the cubicles to face the now smiling clerk.
I can’t do this…
“How the bloody hell am I supposed to walk in these?” she asks, wobbling dangerously on the impossibly high heels.
Back at the office, she asks Ben if he’s sorted his outfit out for the big bash. He’d been both surprised and delighted that she’d thought to invite him as her escort; yet had been secretly staggered at the thought of Catherine accepting an invitation to go anywhere. Let alone a birthday party for one of Britain’s richest and most eligible bachelors.
That last thought has given Ben a few twinges, thinking Catherine might actually be attracted to the man, though her response to that suggestion put the lid firmly on any such ideas.
“We’ll stay as long as we have to,” Catherine scowls at Ben, “and if himself has a mind for anything other than a friendly smile I expect you to deck him!”
Ben laughs at that; then swallows noisily, nervously, foolishly reassuring himself that she doesn’t really mean him to take her literally.
Arriving at the party venue, Ben hands the keys to his sports car over to the chap in charge of valet parking. Taking Catherine’s elbow, he steers her up the steps to the hotel entrance doors where she stares open mouthed at all the bling on display. “Bloody hell!” Looking down at her midnight blue satin sheath, that falls from shoestring shoulder straps to the matching shoes beneath; Catherine scowls at her unadorned self, then sets her spine straight, holds her head up and keeps her eyes firmly forward.
I’m every bit as good as you are, I just can’t walk in these bloody heels!
The grand ballroom is bedecked in the kind of lavish trimmings, huge ice sculptures and chocolate fountains that Catherine had never even dreamed of. The envious stares of so many of the female guests pass her by completely. As do the admiring glances, many of the rich and powerful men are giving her. Only Ben, who quickly reminds her that she has promised to be on her best behaviour, hears her thankfully breathy, stunned exclamation of, “Fuck.”
Logan Sayers, however, hasn’t missed her entrance. Nor has he missed the expletive she uttered. From across the room he read her unpainted lips as clearly as if she were standing next to him. He watches her, surprised by her grace of movement, though she refuses all offers to dance. Even from Ben, he observes with no small measure of satisfaction.
Then Robert Kingsley sought her out. He refuses to take no for an answer when he asks her to dance, and guides her inexperienced feet expertly round the dance floor. She actually laughs with enjoyment when the dance is over; stating that he must be a seriously good dancer if he can make even her look as if she actually knows what she’s doing.
Between the attentions of Ben and Robert Kingsley, Catherine is getting steadily drunk.
So what, it’s the weekend and I’m the boss, so there.
Feeling a strong hand take hold of her arm, Catherine turns dizzily to face an angry looking Logan Sayers. “You’re drunk,” he states drawing her out onto a wide terrace, his ever so haughty aristocratic voice making his observation sound like an accusation.
“Actually, I’m piss-faced,” she corrects, mimicking his accent and drawing a reluctant smile to his lips. She finds herself staring at those lips. Has no idea why she so badly wants to taste them.
So full and soft and…
Shaking her head, Catherine tries to pull out of his grip but it doesn’t loosen in the slightest. Frowning she looks up, trapped in his gaze, like a startled deer in front of the headlights on a lorry that surely spells its doom.
He-man…Norse God…
Then, as if the lorry really has done its worst, Catherine’s world goes black as she passes out.
Back at her bedsit, Logan easily manages to carry Catherine and get the keys to her bedsit out of her evening bag. He pushes the door open and walks into a double sized bedroom that makes up Catherine’s entire living area. Switching on the light, he kicks the door closed and makes his way over to her bed.
Bending carefully, Logan pulls back the quilt as he makes to lay Catherine down. But as he does so her arms come around his neck, her nose nuzzling close and her sleepy voice says, “You smell nice.” He stiffens, not quite sure how to proceed then smiles down at her. “You smell pretty nice yourself.”
He knows she isn’t wearing perfume, but the innocent smell of soap and talcum powder is just as alluring. She has a smile playing over her lips and he wonders what she is thinking about. “Catherine, I’m going to have to take this dress off and help you into bed.”
“You’re…taking me to bed?” Her brow creases, but her eyes don’t even open.
“No, Catherine, I’m going to help you get into bed but I need to help you out of this dress first. It’ll be ruined if you sleep in it,” he states matter-of-fact.
Sliding her down his body to stand on the floor, her wobbly legs barely manage to hold her up. Slipping both straps off her shoulders, he watches the slinky fabric puddle on the floor at her feet. “You really are full of surprises,” he whispers softly as he lifts then lays her on the bed. He can’t help but admire how well she fills out the lacy bra and how feminine she looks wearing the matching lacy briefs. Pulling the covers up, and tucking them gently in around her, Logan gazes down at one of the most intriguing women he’s ever met.
Picking up her evening gown, Logan takes a very short walk around her tiny one room dwelling. He is astounded that she actually manages to live in it; though exist would be a more accurate description, he thinks dryly. But he gives Catherine credit for her housekeeping. There isn’t a thing out of place. Then he takes another look around and decides there actually doesn’t appear to be much of anything to leave lying around. Not even a single framed photo on display.
Opening the small wardrobe, Logan hangs up the gown, and fingers the meagre amount of clothing that hangs there. Is her business doing so badly, he puzzles, his mind trying to make sense of what little he knows of Catherine Colson? He turns to look at her then. She has rolled herself up tight in her blankets, clutching them to her like a shield. He has seen her almost naked when he removed her evening gown, leaving only her obviously new underwear in place. She is shapelier than he’d imagined, even her evening gown had skimmed over and hidden her secrets well he mused. Yet she looks now like a frightened child. Then as if in response to his thoughts she tosses in her sleep becoming even more entangled in the blankets.
Logan finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning over to stroke what little there is of her silky soft hair. A small murmur, a word he can’t make out, is spoken into the night, and a single tear spills down her cheek as she turns her still sleeping face towards him.
“Bloody cheek!” Catherine screws up the note that Logan has left, advising her not to drink, as alcohol obviously does not agree with her, then cradles her throbbing head.
Never again!
What the fuck had she been drinking anyway? She frowns down into the strong black coffee that is all she’s having for breakfast. Just the thought of food is enough to make her stomach roil.
Then a thought finally strikes her. Unthinkingly she had reached for her dressing gown on waking, pulling it tight around herself as she padded around the room in a groggy stupor. Now that the strong black coffee is kicking in, her thoughts have begun to clear. How had she gotten to bed after the party? Indeed, how had she gotten home? Had Ben brought her home? Had he undressed her and put her to bed. She groans with embarrassment, and then remembers the note.
How the hell had Logan Sayers managed to leave her a note on the top of her computer? Had he come back with her and Ben? Had he been in the room when Ben had undressed and put her to bed? Please God, no. Feeling almost faint at the thought, she asks herself the question she has been avoiding. Or had it been Logan Sayers alone who had brought her home, had taken off her clothes before putting her to bed like a drunken teenager? She pulls open her dressing gown; looking down at the scraps of lace the sales clerk had laughingly called underwear.
Holy shit!
With an audible gasp, she draws the dressing gown even more tightly around her. “He’s near as damn it seen me naked,” she moans aloud. “I don’t even know the man and he’s seen me naked!” Catherine’s embarrassment is fast turning to anger. What the bloody hell was Ben doing while Logan Sayers was apparently doing just as he damned well pleased?
Naked!
The long shower and the slow uneventful drive to work have done nothing to improve Catherine’s mood. Striding into the office she begins tearing a strip off the still suffering Ben. “What the bloody hell happened last night?” Catherine shouts then has to turn the volume down as she’s making her own head throb.
Either that or the Numbskulls are playing the sodding bongos.
The fact that Ben is obviously suffering too does nothing to soften her tone.
“I asked you to escort me on one of the very rare occasions that I allow myself to get bulldozed into being sociable – and what do you do…you fucking brain dead moron…you let me get hammered! Plastered! Fucking piss-faced!” She groans then and crumples onto a chair. “And who the bloody hell got me home and into bed?”
Not Logan. Not Logan. Oh God!
Her voice may have softened but her blue eyes, though narrowed, were giving off sparks.
Ben looks up then, his brows drawn together deep in thought. “Well I sort of assumed that, as Robert had offered me the use of a guest room, one of many they booked for just such an emergency, he’d made you the same offer. But…obviously not,” he finishes lamely then shoves two Aspirin into his mouth and gulps down a glass of water.
“You’ve got no idea have you?” Catherine accuses. “I could have been abducted by Jack-the-bloody-Ripper for all you cared.”
Raped! Murdered!
“Now don’t let’s get this all out of proportion,” Ben tries to reason. “I mean…it’s not like Robert or his father would have invited anyone with a dodgy character, is it?” He asks hopefully.
“They invited you didn’t they?” But they hadn’t she realises, she had. Then she hears her telephone ringing and makes her way reluctantly into her own office. “God almighty!” She grimaces, lunging for the phone just to stop the insane noise. “What?”
“Well, I don’t have to ask how your head is this morning.” It’s Logan Sayers and she can just imagine the superior smile that would be on his smug face.
About to say something scathing, Catherine remembers that he must have been the one who had gotten her home safe, if not sound.
Naked! Oh Lord.
“I suppose you want me to thank you?” she asks ungraciously.
“On the contrary…I don’t want or expect anything from you.” The fact that he sounds sincere only serves to aggravate Catherine even more.
“I didn’t ask you to take me home, you know,” she states and can hear the childish petulance in her own voice.
“You didn’t ask me to tuck you up in bed either,” and she can definitely hear the smile in his voice now, “but I did.”
Her cheeks flame and so, naturally for her, does her temper. “Well you don’t have to sound so fucking righteous and pleased about it.”
Jesus!
Catherine hears a rumbling chuckle and continues hotly, “I don’t suppose you know anything about enjoying yourself. You were probably drinking cups of bloody tea all night.”
I wish I had.
“I’ll just have to prove you wrong about that,” Logan challenges.
“About what?” she asks, feeling suddenly confused.
The Numbskulls are still playing the damned bongos in her head!