by Louise Bay
“Can I help?” Mr. Eyelashes asked, just as I finally released myself from his chair. I tried to stand so I could answer him without having my face at his crotch height, but my hair yanked me back down. Holy hell. Now my hair was caught. These chairs should come with a hazard warning. I tried to tug myself away gently but it wouldn’t free. I scrambled to find where it was stuck but my hair seemed to be everywhere. The more I struggled, the more entangled I got. Bent at the waist, hair over my head, I couldn’t see a thing.
I was defeated.
“Someone’s going to have to cut me free,” I announced dramatically.
And then kill me before I died of embarrassment.
“Hold still,” Mr. Voice-Deeper-Than-Cheddar-Gorge said, crouching beside me. He parted my hair like a pair of curtains. From upside down, he looked like he was around Noah’s age. But his hair was darker—short and functional—and those eyelashes. Jeez, they were wasted on him. I’d pay serious money for eyelashes like that. “You need to stop moving because you’re just making things worse,” he said.
“Hey,” I replied, “this isn’t my fault.” But I stayed as still as I could. To stop myself from moving involuntarily, I rested my hand on my legs, above my knees, as if someone was about to leapfrog over me at any moment. Given how today was going, it was a possibility.
I stood there for what seemed like hours. Mr. Bossy finally stepped back. Was that it? Was I free?
“It’s no use,” he said. “Your hair is matted into the chair. I’m going to find some scissors and get rid of it all.”
“Matted?” It had been styled in smooth, glamourous waves, not a tangle in sight. “Please tell me you don’t have to cut it.” I reached around to the top of my head to assess the damage.
The man chuckled and then patted me on the head like I was a dog. “I’m kidding. You’re all good. I’ve set you free.”
I snapped up to standing and narrowed my eyes at him. “A man should never joke about cutting off a woman’s hair,” I replied. “I could have died of shock and that would have ruined the day for Noah and Truly.” I glanced around to see if there had been any witnesses to this kerfuffle—and my knicker display.
The corners of his mouth twitched and his eyelashes fluttered like they were butterfly wings. “I’m very sorry. I’ll know better next time.” The pulse of his eyebrows suggested he wasn’t sorry at all.
I twisted, pulling my dress sleeve toward me, seeing the gaping hole that had been ripped into it. “I dipped into my house deposit account for this dress,” I said, showing him the hole. I’d felt slightly nauseous when I’d handed over my card to the sales assistant. I’d known I wouldn’t get a lot of wear out of the dress, but it was one of those dresses that went from “pretty enough” on the hanger to absolute magic once it was on. I’d instantly lost a stone, the color made my skin luminescent, and my arse looked like I’d stolen it from Jennifer Lopez. And now I was pretty sure the magic dress was beyond salvageable.
“No one’s looking at the dress,” he replied, pulling out the offending chair and taking a seat.
He was probably right. Everyone would be looking at beautiful Truly. That’s how it should be, not only because she was the bride, but because she was movie-star stunning as well.
“They’re looking at the beautiful woman wearing it,” he said as he glanced at my place card.
I was suddenly a little lost for words. It wasn’t what I’d been expecting him to say and I wasn’t sure if I should swoon or gag.
“Madison, I’m Nathan. Good to meet you.”
“Well, I hope it’s nice to meet you. You’re not actually trying to kill me, are you?” I asked.
He blinked and then frowned slightly—a politician answering tough questions on The Andrew Marr Show. “Yes, actually, I am. I’ve come to the wedding of two of the nicest people in England to commit murder. It’s not going well so far, but I haven’t given up hope. I’ve laced the chicken with poison.”
I rolled my eyes to disguise the smile creeping over my face.
The wedding party took their seats, and waiters and waitresses began to distribute the starters. At least I had food to look forward to, even though I’d just shown the entire room my underwear.
“This looks nice?” I said, as I turned to deaf Tom on my left in the hope he’d been exaggerating his condition.
“Good God, no. I think it’s chicken,” he replied.
I sighed. I was going to have to sit here, mortified, with Mr. He’s-Seen-My-Knickers as company. And then as soon as humanly possible, I’d escape the shame to my hotel room upstairs. While I stabbed at my confit chicken, Nathan Cove picked up his glass, took a swig of wine, and winced.
“You don’t like the wine?” Perhaps he wasn’t a spreadsheet-loving geek who lived with his mother. Maybe he was one of those algorithm people that worked for an investment bank who bought wine more expensive than my annual travel pass. I didn’t know much about menswear, but his suit looked cut to fit him exactly, and I was sure the fabric would be butter-soft under my fingers. There was no way a suit off the rack would be able to accommodate his broad shoulders or the hard, round muscles of his upper arms. A suit like this had to be as tailored and precise as the man who wore it.
“No, I most definitely do not like the wine,” he replied. “I don’t drink a lot but when I do, I have . . . particular tastes.” He drew out the last words as if he was talking about something other than alcohol.
“‘Particular tastes’? You drink the milk of llamas, or like Cherry Coke or something?”
He screwed up his nose. “Cherry Coke? Are you serious? Of course not.”
Apparently, llama milk was entirely acceptable. “So, what exactly are your particular tastes?” Don’t be afraid to ask the question outright, my mother always said. If you can’t tease it out of someone, straight-talking can sometimes beat it out of them.
“We’re small-talking.” He glanced down at my mouth and without thinking I reached up to feel if I had half a bread crumb stuck to my lip. All clear, thankfully.
He was avoiding my question and that made me want him to answer even more. “We’re at a wedding,” I replied. “That’s what people do. We’re strangers with no reason to talk at all apart from the fact that we’re plonked next to each other for a few hours. So, tell me about your particular tastes.” And then it struck me—was he talking about drugs? Perhaps I was sitting next to someone who might not like Cherry Coke but . . .
“Well, I don’t,” he replied. “Small-talk that is. I’ve never been good at it. And I only do it under duress.”
“Then consider yourself under duress.”
He chuckled and sat back in his chair. He towered above me even when we were seated.
“I like a good shot of tequila,” he said, his eyes flitting to me as if bracing himself for my reaction.
“Oh,” I said. “I thought it was going to be slightly more interesting than that. I thought you were going to tell me of some sordid addiction.”
He moved closer, whispering, “It’s far too early in the evening for you to hear all about my sordid addictions.” He pulled back and grinned, those eyelashes of his almost catching fire from the sparkle in his eyes. “You don’t like tequila?” he asked.
I shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m not sure I’ve tasted it since university.”
He laughed as if I’d just said something completely idiotic.
“What?” I asked. “I can not like tequila if it suits me.”
“You just haven’t drunk the right kind. Give me a minute.”
He was up in a flash and headed toward the corner bar. He was big but moved smoothly through the tables and chairs with a swagger that said he was trouble.
He came back with a fancy bottle and set it and a tray of shot glasses on the table. “Tequila,” he announced to the table. “Anyone want a shot?”
People muttered no thank yous and pointed to their wine glasses, so Nathan poured out two shots and handed one to me.
&
nbsp; “I think I’ll stick with wine too,” I said.
“Oh no. If I have to small-talk, you have to drink this.”
“You’re not very charming,” I said. “I’m great company. I’m funny—sometimes—and I’m definitely a good listener. You don’t need to be drunk to speak to me.”
He chuckled. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said. It went ‘If I have to small-talk with you, then you have to drink this,’ if I remember correctly.” Which I did. Because remembering quotes was my job. Or part of it anyway.
He shrugged. “I’m not trying to get you drunk. I’m not that guy. I was just trying to open your world up to good tequila, that’s all.”
I was wrong. He was quite charming. Or maybe his eyelashes had hypnotized me.
I pointedly ignored the shot he’d poured and reached for my wine. “So, Nathan Cove, no relation to that guy I read about in the gossip columns who just sold his company and gets his penis out all over London?”
“Nope,” he answered.
“That’s a relief,” I replied. “I wouldn’t have wanted to show my knickers to that guy.”
“You should never hold back if you get a desire to flash your knickers. The pink suits your skin tone. Oh, and I’m not related to that Nathan Cove you mentioned, I am him. And while I did float my company on the Exchange recently, I’m not the playboy the press would have you believe.”
Kill. Me. Now. Would the parade of humiliations in front of this man never end?
“Newspapers are terrible,” I mumbled into my wine, which did nothing to soothe the heat flushing my cheeks. I reminded myself not to tell him I was a journalist, and definitely not mention who I was related to. How had I not recognized him? Probably because I rarely read my mother’s column. I didn’t need to because—like it or not—I was forced to hear all the juicy details before they hit the press.
“I take no notice,” he said.
He rubbed his jaw with his palm and I noticed the hint of shadows underneath his eyes. Despite looking like he could do with a lie-in, he had one of those textbook good-looking faces: strong nose, angular jaw, cheekbones that I tried to create with blusher on a daily basis. No wonder he was used to a lot of attention from women. Even I found myself involuntarily pressing my boobs together to try to create some kind of cleavage as I looked at him. It was an instinctive biological reaction my body was having to a face that handsome and a body that . . . big.
“So, if the tequila’s so great, why do you look like you’re sipping poison?” I asked. “You’d be on to your second shot by now if it was that amazing.”
He shifted, stretching his large hand to the back of my chair, caging me between him and the table. Lowering his voice, he seemed to purr like an oversized jungle cat. “You clearly have no idea how to enjoy the best things in life if you think chugging a glass of two-thousand-pound-a-bottle tequila is a good idea. The best things in life should be savored.” His eyes dipped down to my lips for a second and my breath hitched in my ribcage. “Unhurried,” he continued. “Pleasure should be drawn out and made to last.” It was as if someone tripped the go faster switch on my heartbeat—and this close, Nathan could surely hear the racing rhythm.
I swallowed, heat rising from my belly and spreading up my neck. “Okay,” I said, a little winded. “I’ll try it.” I reached for my drink and my arm caught his arm, igniting a thousand tiny sparks across my skin.
I glanced up at him to see if he’d felt that too. His widened eyes and slightly open mouth suggested he had, and that was before his tongue darted out to wet his full, smooth lips.
Jesus, he looked like he was about to kiss me. And I was about to let him.
Not going to happen, I scolded myself.
At least, not before the speeches.
Three
Nathan
Quirky wasn’t usually my type, but there was something about Madison Shore that made my mouth water and my fingers heat with a need to touch. Maybe this wedding wouldn’t be so bad after all. After the conversation with Gretel, I needed to distract myself from the ticking for as long as I was stuck in this country hotel in the middle of nowhere.
She looked away from me, picked up the glass of tequila, and held it to her luscious, full red lips.
“Slowly,” I said, trailing my eyes down to her chest and then back up to that mouth, which seemed to have some kind of magnetic pull. “Just coat your lips at first and taste it with the tip of your tongue.”
I had a few more ideas of what she could do with her tongue when she was done with the tequila.
I enjoyed women who presented a challenge, who didn’t giggle as soon as we were introduced. Whether I was going to sleep with a woman for a night or a week, I always preferred someone who gave as good as she got. I’d found that who a woman was fully clothed often translated to how she was naked—and I didn’t like to sleep with passive women.
Madison wasn’t going to be like that. Those luscious auburn curls would bounce as she rode me. Those red lips would look perfect wrapped around my cock as she swallowed me deep and those breasts . . . I pushed down a groan that rumbled in my chest.
Her eyebrows pulled together in suspicion. Tentatively, she took a tiny sip from the glass. She shot me a look as if she were convinced that I was playing a trick on her and snakes were about to slide from the glass.
If we weren’t in public . . . I’d press her up against the wall and kiss that suspicion right out of her.
Her eyes widened as the tequila coated her lips, and she lowered her glass. “It’s okay.”
I chuckled. It was more than okay.
“You like this better than the wine?” she asked.
The wine was fine. Noah knew his stuff and wasn’t skimping on anything today. But this tequila . . . Asombroso’s Del Porto . . . This was better than most things I put in my mouth.
Women aside.
Madison took another sip and I exhaled, letting my shoulders drop and the stress of my earlier phone call slide away. There was nothing I could do about it until tomorrow, so I may as well enjoy this afternoon.
And tonight.
With Madison.
The wedding was private—no paparazzi to witness anything. I wasn’t working. Madison was beautiful, feisty, and sitting next to me. All the ingredients of a perfect evening.
“Okay,” she said. “It’s good, I’ll admit that. But we’re eating chicken. I’m not sure it goes with this.”
“It goes with everything,” I replied.
“Do you always have to have the last word?” she asked and then took a forkful of chicken.
“In some settings,” I replied, thinking about the last time I hadn’t gotten the last word at Astro Holdings. Probably when I asked the board to ignore the “rumblings” in the City and instead focus on the results. I got told that perception was the only thing that mattered.
Which might be true but didn’t mean it wasn’t bollocks.
“How do you know Noah and Truly?” I asked.
A grin unraveled across her face so wide and warm the air around us seemed to heat. I couldn’t help myself from smiling in response. “You’re small-talking,” she said. “I’m proud of you.”
“I’ll expect a certificate if I make it through the entire evening.”
“Maybe we’ll be through the small talk by then. You never know—we might be mere moments away from confessing our darkest secrets, connecting on a deeper level.”
“Or we might end up naked, connecting on a physical level,” I replied casually, as if I’d told her it looked like it might rain tomorrow.
Madison stopped chewing mid-mouthful and her eyes slid to mine. She swallowed, went to speak and then stopped herself before eventually saying, “Well, I suppose you’ve seen my knickers. It is the next step.” She took a sip of her wine. “I should have known you’d rather have sex than a deep and meaningful conversation. I guess the gossip about you is true.”
“Don’t believe everyt
hing you read in the papers.” I was single and sitting next to a gorgeous woman. Of course, I was going to flirt. I was only human.
She shot me a knowing smile. “Oh right, is this it?” she asked. “I get it. You’re the poor, misunderstood guy who’s just waiting for the right woman. The knickers probably drop to the floor of their own volition.”
This woman had read more about me than I was comfortable with, and as a result she’d pegged me wrong. I didn’t play games—I didn’t need to. “I think you must be hard of hearing,” I replied. “Like your friend there.” I nodded at the elderly man sitting on her other side. “It’s not like I’m putting on an act. I couldn’t have been clearer or more straightforward. You suggested we connect—what? Emotionally? I simply countered with an alternative. If you think women need to be tricked into going to bed with me, then I’m offended.”
“You are not offended,” she scoffed.
“No, I’m not. But, Madison, women want to sleep with me. I don’t need to trap them, lie to them, or create some story about being wounded.”
“Oh,” she said as if she’d just understood the first law of thermodynamics. “Because you’re just that good-looking you have women falling at your feet. Now I understand.”
“Is it so difficult to believe that women like sex just as much as I do?” I asked. “Maybe you’re living in some Jane Austen adaptation, but the rest of us are in the twenty-first century. Women are allowed their sexual appetites.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m wrong.”
It couldn’t be that easy. “That’s it? You’re wrong, I’m right, end of discussion?”
She shrugged, took a sip of wine, and set down her glass. “Yup,” she said. “You’re right. I was falling back on old-fashioned stereotypes.”
I chuckled. “Are you the perfect human being?” I asked. “You’re prepared to be wrong and admit it.”
“I’m far from perfect,” she said. “I’m clumsy—as you’ve witnessed—I hate being at weddings alone, and I’m never happy with my mascara. But admitting that someone has a good point and proved me wrong? That I can do.”