by Anna Premoli
For a moment we just stare at each other, neither wanting to be the first to look away but eventually Ian breaks the silence. “Well, I'd love to stay here all evening but, alas, in ten minutes I have to be out of the office as I have a date, so I'd ask you to get to the point,” he says in a voice which is suddenly cold. He's finished with the pleasantries.
“The point is Beverly,” I say, clearly. “He wants us to work together on his portfolio.”
“Of course he does,” says Ian as if it was the most normal thing in the world, “he's heard that we are the two brightest brains in the whole department and he wants both our contributions. I can understand that. You can develop your project and once you've finished pass it over to me and I'll see if I can suggest any improvements,” he says calmly.
And it's strange, because Ian is anything but a predictable man. In the worst sense of the term, of course. “This bimbo you're taking out to dinner tonight has obviously got you all hot and bothered, but do try to stay focused for a few minutes,” I snap back.
My sentence obviously stings him, because he immediately leans out of his chair, grabs my wrist and comes dangerously close to my face.
“Bimbo?” he echoes angrily. In his eyes I can see literal flashes of blue.
And it makes me smile. “They usually are. Or have your tastes changed recently?” I ask with an expression of perfect innocence.
Ian leans close to my face and, struggling visibly to control himself, says, “God how I wish I could shut that big mouth of yours once and for all. It would be the greatest satisfaction of my life.”
In his eyes I can see an anger that's close to uncontrollable. I've really made him lose his temper. Good.
With a determined yank I manage to remove my arm from his grasp and put a safe distance between us. I've already broken his nose once, I wouldn't want to have to do it again.
“Point one, Beverly wants us to work together, and the two of us, being the perfect professionals and adults we are, are going to do it,” I explain. “Second, there isn't going to be any team, there will just be the two of us on this job – we're already irrational enough without involving other people in this feud of ours.”
His expression is a mixture of irritation and understanding. I see he's starting to guess where I'm going with this. “Point three, when we have to pull each other's hair, figuratively of course, we will do it outside this office. As far as everyone else is concerned, the two of us will get on like a house on fire for the duration of the assignment. Our inevitable rows will take not take place here,” I conclude.
“You don't want witnesses, you mean,” replies Ian, without a trace of surprise.
“Of course not, and neither do you. Last time, the constant arguing nearly cost us both our careers, and I don't want anything like that this time.”
“Especially because it cost me my nose—” he points out with irritation.
“And I wouldn't want to have to ruin your plastic surgeon's sterling work,” I answer sarcastically.
I know that Ian didn't have any work done on his nose after its appointment with my fist, but insinuating that he did always gives me some satisfaction, because it's an issue he's particularly sensitive about. His obsession with his appearance is well known to all, as is his terror of hospitals and operations.
“The sterling work I would have liked him to do, you mean,” he points out angrily.
“God, honestly – you're more obsessed with the shape of your nose than a woman! I've got an ugly nose but I manage to have a perfectly normal life,” I say, feeling wise.
“You don't have an ugly nose,” he says with conviction, “you have a normal nose which is perfectly suited to your face.”
His words leave me in shock for a moment: Ian saying nice things about my nose? Where on earth is this conversation going?
“Of course, if we were talking about your hair, I'd have something to say,” he adds hastily.
Ah, there we go – I'm more comfortable with criticism. For the record, I have very normal hair, a very normal brown colour and of an extremely average length. There's not really much to criticize.
“So is it a deal?” I ask, ignoring his comment as I stand up and proffer my hand instead. Professionalism above all.
“Do I have a choice?” he asks, a resigned look on his face.
“Of course not,” I reply affably.
Ian sighs. “Alright, it's a deal,” he says. He looks doubtfully at my hand, and I'm almost starting to think he won't shake it when he suddenly makes his mind up and grabs it. A firm grip, which leaves no room for indecision.
I look up and meet his gaze. And that's a mistake, because those infamous blue eyes of his trap me immediately, and it's a struggle to pull myself away. I can see why he has the whole of London at his feet. Seriously, I can be objective and recognize when a man is objectively, annoyingly good-looking. They tell me that he's often in the tabloids: a nobleman, future duke, first in line to an empire of immense riches and with a physical presence that doesn't go unnoticed. He's always being photographed with models or women who work in PR – playing at having a job while they try to snare themselves a man. Of course, the whole lot of them together wouldn't have the IQ of a person of average intelligence, but that doesn't matter. All Ian wants is to be idolised, nothing more.
I pull my hand out of his grip as though I'd burned it and look away. Better get back to reality. “Have a good night and a good weekend, then,” I say magnanimously, proud of having risen above the situation.
He raises his usual sarcastic eyebrow, and my plan to bury the hatchet melts like snow in the sun. “Come on, get a move on,” I add as I walk towards the door, “you know bimbos don't like being kept hanging around. Never make them wait.”
And to top it off, I give him a wink just before I disappear into the darkness of the corridor.
I go back to my office and, for the first time since I opened my eyes this morning, I want to smile. Thanks Ian – thanks a lot.
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Addictive Fiction
First published in Italy in 2017by Newton Compton
First published in the UK in 2017 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Anna Premoli, 2017
The moral right of Anna Premoli to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781786694300
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