Seeing White

by Charlotte E Hart

  The moment I’ve turned my back on them I palm the card and tuck it into my pocket, grinning with delight. I won’t keep it but that doesn’t mean I don’t like the sentiment attached to it, and whatever it is that Mr. White is trying to achieve, he’s at least made me smile.

  The rest of the day passes by more jovially and the earlier tension seems to have evaporated. Clearly the gift and note has lifted the anxiety that we had lost the contract and we are once again jubilant. With any luck he won’t be there and I can just deliver it to someone significant and that will be the end of the matter, because I really don’t want to see him again. It was embarrassing enough last time, and lovely as he may be to look at, I simply can’t bear the thought of him looking at me again. He made me uneasy, and that was regardless of the strawberry mousse incident. Something about the way he looked at me just sent shivers of fear or waves of pleasure up and down my spine. I’m still not sure which it was so I’m not putting myself in front of him again anytime soon.

  Unfortunately, my decision to not see him again doesn’t seem to stop me from fingering the card repeatedly all afternoon while random sexual images float through my brain, and in spite of how much I chastise myself, there’s just a small part of me that wishes I was more like either of the other girls in the shop.

  That night I place the box on my bedside table and dreamily stare at it, still wondering why he would send me a gift. Or why someone like Alexander White would even give me a second thought.

  But as sleep pulls at me and I close my eyes, I can’t deny that those ocean blue eyes are still continuing with their penetrating gaze. They’re still seemingly asking me for something that I’m unaware of, and quite unnervingly, they’re the last thing I see as I drift off.

  ~

  What does a girl wear to return a gift? Well, after much deliberating, I choose a green silk blouse and a pair of my most well-cut skinny jeans. I pull on my long, heeled boots and add another swipe of mascara. That will have to do. I’m not sure why I’m bothering so much about my appearance but for some reason, I have butterflies in my stomach and it matters to me. I want to feel at my best as I walk into that building again, and lord knows if he happens to be around I want to feel at my best in front of him. Running the brush through my loose hair once more, I add some lip-gloss and push in my diamond studs. There. Done. Spraying some Chloe on my neck and wrists, I walk through to the lounge with purpose. I can do this.

  “Still taking it back then.” Belle states rather than asks while painting her toenails.

  “Yep,” I reply breezily.

  “Shame. It’s such a beautiful thing.” She sighs and looks somewhat wistfully out of the window, which is odd.

  “Yep.” I narrow my eyes at her. What is she up to?

  “Beth-”

  I interrupt her before she can finish. “Listen, Belle, before you try and talk me out of it, I really can’t accept it, honey. It’s just not something I do. This life you two live is not for me. I just want to keep it simple.” I smile at my own ability to be assertive. It happens every now and then. She sighs again.

  “I was just going to say please be careful. You’re about to refuse Alexander White and I don’t think you understand what that means,” she says with some annoyance.

  “What on earth are you talking about?” I ask. I really have no idea.

  “The man doesn’t understand the word no, Beth. He will not be amused by your rejection and we... Well, we need this contract.” I suddenly see her point.

  “Oh, I didn’t think about it like that,” I exclaim, my brain beginning to process the information and what it means to us.

  “Well, on your journey please do, and think hard about how you handle it. We do not want to get it wrong again, do we now?” She raises an eyebrow. Bitch. Sometimes I hate how clever she is. I’m still not changing my mind about giving it back though.

  “Right, I will. I’ll see you later then.”

  I sigh as I head to the door, swiping my brown leather jacket on the way.

  “Okay bye. Good luck.”

  Even though I take the tube this time, the journey still seems to last only minutes. It doesn’t. It actually takes at least an hour, but unfortunately I’m so absorbed in thinking about how I’m going to handle the situation that I arrive before I know it. So I give myself a little time to appreciate Mr. White’s building in all its magnificence. It’s a tall and imposing Georgian structure that has been painted completely white, allowing it to stand out against the other grey facades on the road. It’s covered in six strict rows of fourteen beautifully restored sash windows, which give it an air of elegance, but the underlying tone of the building shouts power. The very modern looking revolving door at the entrance entices me towards it steadily, somehow beckoning me with its draw, while at the same time scaring the hell out of me. And Christ does the whole thing suit him well. I can almost feel him emanating from the fibre of the structure - charismatic, elegant, impressive and clearly somewhat daunting.

  As I approach the foyer, I notice things I missed before while exiting the building at speed last time. The black and white chequered floor reminds me of a chessboard, which makes me smile, and the huge arrangements of flowers that adorn the tall, pillared columns in the front are stunning. Each piece of artwork that hangs on the walls seems to have a softer feel than the art I saw in the conference room. They’re somehow more welcoming and sociable, as if inviting you calmly into the hornet’s nest with a smile and a wink. I can’t help but giggle at the thought because regardless of his butchering hands, he’s a sneaky bastard.

  I step towards the unfairly stunning woman at the desk and tell her that I’d like to leave the package for Mr. White.

  “Hold on please. I’ll just buzz through to Miss Trembell. She will collect it for you,” she says smiling. “What is your name please?”

  There’s a short conversation on the phone and then I’m directed to the sofa to make myself comfortable while I wait. That’s just hilarious. I’ve never felt more on edge in my life as I try to disappear into the waiting area and somehow morph myself into the sofa. From where I sit I can see the elevator so I just wait for the efficient Louisa Trembell to materialise in the hope that it will be quick and painless. Flicking through a magazine and trying to relax, I find myself desperately hoping that the sinfully sexy Mr. White won’t appear and ruin my seemingly natural disposition because at present, I’m managing to at least appear like I’m in control of myself for her.

  I suddenly feel shivers run down my spine and stiffen. It’s just like the feeling in movies when there’s someone bad on the other side of the door that the heroine’s about to open. My heart rate leaps bizarrely and before I calculate the possibility of an actual threat, I become aware that it’s him. It’s the same strange shivery thing that I had when he looked at me, and now for some reason, I can feel him, perhaps near me again, or in me, almost all over me. I have no idea what it is but the anxious experience from before has now returned with a vengeance. I sink down into the seat and try to hide behind my magazine, then peer over the top in the hope of spotting him in time so I can run, or maybe try my hand at evaporation or something similar. But as the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I swiftly realise that he’s probably behind me. Shit.

  I should turn round with poise and flair to check out my theory. I could stand up and walk directly out of the building without even seeing him. Unfortunately, my curiosity at this random sixth sense that I seem to possess gets the better of me so I narrow my eyes and take a deep breath.

  I slowly turn to look up at the most breath-taking vision I’ve ever seen, still peering over my magazine. Those light blue eyes gaze at me from the wall behind. He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, seemingly waiting for me to speak. I have nothing for this moment as I continue to gawp at his somehow announced presence and stupidly run my eyes over the exquisite grey pinstripe suit. Seriously, it’s a really stupid move because now I’m imagining his body
beneath it as I scan his broad shoulders and then those long legs, which obviously just increases my heart rate again. He cocks his head to the side at my perusal of him, so eventually I find the wherewithal to stand and turn myself fully towards him while closing my gaping mouth. Opening it again to say something, I realise I still haven’t got control of functioning thought, apart from several inappropriate ones, so I close it again. He still looks at me as he smirks a little, probably at my discomfort. It only makes him look all the more glorious. Bastard. I need to get a grp.

  “Elizabeth.” And, oh, I love the way my name sounds from his lips, so much so that I mouth my own name to myself and gaze at his. This causes more unacceptable images to interfere with my other ridiculous thoughts, so I shake myself from my hedonistic visions.

  “Mr. White, I-”

  He cuts me off. “We can’t talk here. Come with me for a moment and we’ll go somewhere more private,” he suggests. Private, yes. Good.

  “Okay,” I reply, while thinking this is probably the most stupid thing I have ever done, but it will absolutely be better to refuse him in a private room. I really don’t want to make a scene and embarrass myself further.

  With a swipe of a card, the wall seems to open up behind him and I realise there’s a hidden elevator there. No wonder I didn’t see him arrive. He gestures his hand towards it with a smile and I awkwardly manoeuvre my way around the sofa and step in. Elegant as always.

  I feel him follow at a polite distance, being careful not to touch me, acting the gentleman. I can’t help wondering if it’s always so as more of those sodding images enter my brain. More than likely not. He never for a second takes his eyes off mine as he leans on the wall and crosses his arms. My insides clench at the vision that stands before me, and hard as I try, I don’t appear to be able to stop the shaking thing that is beginning to occur within me. I exhale a breath and accept that this really is far too close for comfort. I haven’t got a hope of appearing in control and I definitely won’t be able to hold his gaze for much longer. His casually aggressive dominance is so completely overbearing and undeniably panty dropping that I feel the moment when I begin to fold. It’s the second he nonchalantly licks his very beautiful lips and pushes away from the wall towards me. I immediately shudder with something odd and drop my eyes to the floor in defeat.

  A small chuckle leaves his mouth. It’s probably more a recognition of my surrender to his obvious superiority in staring contests, so I fidget with my hands as I feel him studying me. Quietly smiling to myself, I think of the effect he’s having on me. It really is absurd. I’m even amusing myself with my ineptitude so I steel myself and look up again. He doesn’t pretend he isn’t looking at me, or rather my chest area. He just raises an eyebrow and tilts his head a little as if he has every right to be looking me over. He’s possibly right. God knows every other woman in the world would probably be dropping to their knees at the thought, let alone the reality. He suddenly says the word “six” aloud, so firmly that I flinch at his tone and stumble backwards a little as the elevator starts to rise beneath us. He smirks again. Apparently I’m amusing him.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, trying for casual and balanced, inwardly shaking like a bloody leaf.

  “Somewhere more private,” he reiterates, flashing a true megawatt smile at me. It’s disturbing to say the least. Women would die for it, I’m sure.

  Before I know it, the door slides back and I’m ushered into a large, white, granite-floored foyer. Imposing double oak doors lead off from the foyer on three sides and I notice the walls are also painted white. In fact, everything’s white. He drops his card onto the table by the elevator and proceeds to walk through one set of doors into a large the kitchen area.

  “Would you like some wine, Elizabeth?” he calls over his shoulder in a relaxed fashion as I study his rather impressive back view and follow him.

  “Uh, yes please,” I reply. Okay, so this isn’t what I was expecting and now I’m in an apartment with him. Probably his apartment. How the hell did this turn into a drink in his home? “Is this your apartment? It’s wonderful,” I ask, feeling a bit flustered as I look around the vast, modern, open-plan space. Three huge, black leather sofas that dominate the lounge area are placed around a large glass coffee table, and behind that is a wall of glass overlooking the city. Other than that, there seems to be no colour at all, only white. Glass and white everywhere. The place is extremely sparse and for some reason seems very little like the man who stands in front of me. Not that I’d know, because I know nothing about him, but it all just feels wrong somehow.

  “Yes, I spend most of the week here when I’m in London. I go home at the weekends or when I get the chance. I try to protect my free time but I’m afraid it’s not always possible. Red or white?”

  “Excuse me?” I stutter in surprise, turning my head back towards him and dragging my eyes from the stunning view of the London skyline.

  “The wine, Elizabeth. Red or white?” he asks, poking his spell binding head above the kitchen counter. His near black hair twinkles amongst all the white, making me gaze at it in wonder, and god those lips are moving again. “Elizabeth?”

  “Oh, yes. White please, if you have it, although I’m not staying, I-”

  “I have everything you might need here,” he cuts me off again. He seems to like doing that. He smirks at me, cocking that damn eyebrow again.

  Is he flirting with me? No, I must have misread that last comment, surely. I need to get out of here and quick. I’m absolutely going to make an utter idiot of myself soon, and if he is flirting, there’s only one thing on his mind and that is not going to happen, regardless of my still clenching insides.

  “Mr. White, I just came by to return the bracelet. I can’t possibly accept it and I really don’t need to take up any of your time,” I say, placing the blue box on the countertop and hoping my tone is pleasant enough. “So I’ll just leave it here and go.” Stay positive, Beth.

  “Why on earth not?” he questions incredulously as he pours the wine and hands me a glass, completely ignoring my request to leave and not even glancing at the box.

  “It’s simply too much. I don’t even know you and I’ve done nothing to warrant such a wonderful thing so I’d like to give it back,” I reply. He looks at me quizzically for a moment then sighs and walks towards me, his eyes narrowing with each pace forward. I take a hasty step backwards.

  “Louisa will be very annoyed if you don’t take it, because I will have to send her across town every day until you do accept it, and that will be quite infuriating for her. It will also mean she can’t be as efficient for me as she should be, and therefore I will not be as enamoured by her skills as I normally am,” he states calmly while he walks behind me and removes my jacket from my shoulders, taking my bag with it. I let him for some reason and shrug my arms out awkwardly, trying to stop myself from spilling my drink as his fingers brush my back. “So unless you want to cause all sorts of trouble, I suggest you just accept it for what it is meant to be. A gift.”

  “Really, Mr. White I-”

  “Alex,” he cuts me off as he gazes at me with an arrogant in control pose. He’s right. He is. In fact, I’m still trying to process the fact that he said a whole paragraph to me because his voice in full swing was like hearing the devil beckoning. A low, gravelly and somehow hypnotic tone came from his mouth, causing all kinds of reactions to erupt within me, mainly in my groin, and him actually touching me did nothing to stop the damn feeling at all.

  “Right, Alex, yes. I just can’t... Please?” Am I now begging him to take back the bracelet?

  “Please what, Elizabeth?” He lifts that bloody eyebrow at me again as he puts my coat and bag on the counter softly.

  “Please... Please, just accept that I’m returning it and that attractive as it is, I couldn’t take it from you and feel at ease with myself. It’s just…” I struggle to finish quite as effectively as I’d like to and his amused expression is doing nothing to help me find t
he right words.

  “Look, Elizabeth, I am not in the habit of accepting no for an answer and I’m not about to start now. If the price tag worries you, please don’t let it. It’s not like I can’t afford it.” He gestures his wineglass around the room. “If it makes you feel more comfortable that small artwork cost more,” he says, pointing towards a painting of a boy in the pouring rain behind me. I move toward it, feeling bizarrely drawn for some reason as he continues. “The point of sending you the gift was to get you to contact me. That part has worked. If you really don’t want the bracelet then give it to someone else. I quite like it though. It reminded me of you. Besides, I very much hoped you would wear it for dinner.” I swing my head back to him so quickly I could have whiplash and find that he’s moved closer - only two feet away. I look up into his eyes in disbelief.

  “Excuse me? What are you…?” I reply as I retreat a bit, feeling completely breathless at his proximity. Did he just ask me out?

  “Dinner at my house next Saturday,” he says, looking directly at me, motionless and smiling beautifully. I still can’t breathe. Yes he did ask me out. That can’t be right.

  “Are you… Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. Whi- Uh, Alex?” It’s not possible. I can’t help smiling.

  “I don’t know about a date. I haven’t had one of those for a quite a while but I would very much like to cook you dinner, surprisingly enough,” he says, laughing at himself and ushering me into the lounge area. “Drink some wine. It’s really very good.”

  “Right.” Good idea. I slurp at it. A date, really? Well not a date, but still.

  “Do you like it?” he asks after staring at me for some time. It’s at least given me a small chance to get my head around the thought of a date with him.

  “The wine, the bracelet, the painting or the view?” I reply with a smirk. Apparently I’m now feeling a little more confident in my demeanour because my sarcasm comes rushing back to me.