by Elise Noble
Oh no. No way. Not in a million years.
“Really?” Imogen asked.
Oliver shifted from foot to foot. “I spend most of my time at the office. My housekeeper can look after Stefanie during the day, and the building’s concierge is available all evening.”
Hello, stop talking as if I wasn’t there.
“Imogen, no. Remember what we spoke about this morning?”
“About you wanting to become a nun? You weren’t serious, were you?”
“About the ‘men are rats’ part,” I hissed, trying to keep my voice down.
“But he’s not a rat.” She snuck a glance at Oliver. “He’s a lawyer. And he’s hot.”
From the slight smirk on his face, he definitely heard that last part.
“And I bet he’s got a great apartment. Yes, you should definitely go.”
“No!”
She turned to Oliver. “Don’t worry about my friend. Her judgement’s been a little off lately.”
Imogen didn’t know the half of it. And she completely ignored me as she carried on.
“If you write down your address, I’ll drop some of her clothes off later. Can you give her a ride there from the hospital?”
Oliver plucked a card from his wallet and handed it to her. “If you call this number, my assistant will arrange to pick up Stefanie’s things.”
“Do I get any say in this?” I asked.
They both turned to me. “No.”
In the hospital parking lot, I tried another feeble protest while Oliver slid the passenger seat back as far as it would go and lowered me into it.
“You don’t have to do this. I’ll manage at home.”
“Why should you have to ‘manage’ when you can have help?”
I didn’t have an answer, and secretly, a tiny part of me liked the idea of being attended to by a housekeeper for a week, if only so I could eat proper food. Even affording groceries would be difficult right now—I’d really struggled with that last time. Besides, I soon found out Oliver was serious about spending most of his time in the office.
That first night, he led me into the elevator and we soon whizzed up to the penthouse. He held out an arm when the doors opened, but I shook my head.
“I need to get used to walking with a crutch.”
Two crutches would have been ideal, but my injured wrist put an end to that idea. Instead, I set off at an awkward hop-shuffle that took more out of me than I cared to admit. In the lounge, I collapsed back on the white leather sofa, grateful to rest and half-asleep from the medication. I was still dressed in the black skirt I’d worn to Java, which now sported a two-inch tear on one thigh, and the nurse had found me a top to wear that would fit over my bandages—one of those baggy green ones doctors wear. I was a mismatched mess in Oliver’s immaculate home.
The man himself trailed me in and took a seat in the chair opposite. “Can I get you anything? Something to drink? Dinner?”
I wanted to say no, that I’d be fine, but I couldn’t ignore the gnawing hunger caused by not eating for a day. “I wouldn’t say no to some food.”
“Italian okay?”
“I’ll eat anything.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow, and I realised I’d said something really stupid.
“I mean, I like Italian.”
He walked over to a table by the door and picked up the phone, then spoke for a minute in what I could only assume was Italian. Once he hung up, he took his seat again.
“There’s an Italian restaurant in the lobby if you get hungry. Just dial star twelve. And Rhodium will deliver here. Plus Claude’s, if you want French cuisine.”
Of course they would. Oliver lived in a different world, one where the two best restaurants in Richmond, neither of which even offered a delivery service, were at his beck and call. “Thanks. I’m sure I can find something here, though.” Something that didn’t require me to take out another credit card.
“Bridget keeps the cupboards fully stocked.”
“Bridget’s your housekeeper?”
He nodded. “You’ll meet her tomorrow—she usually starts around eight. Do you want something to drink?”
As well as my stomach being empty, my throat was parched. “Yes, please. But I shouldn’t have alcohol with my pain pills.”
“Water? Juice?”
“Juice is good.”
The doorbell rang as he came back with two glasses of OJ, and rather than move to the dining table, we ate from our laps in the lounge. Oliver’s version of delivered food didn’t come in cardboard containers—it arrived on china plates complete with cutlery and condiments. Even so, from the awkward way he sat, I got the impression he didn’t usually eat informally like that.
I ate so quickly I barely had time to talk, and in any case, I didn’t know what to say. Oliver chewed more slowly, and a couple of times, I caught him watching me as I carved off pieces of lasagne using the side of my fork.
“Are you left-handed?” he asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“You look uncomfortable eating with your right.”
I forked up the last mouthful and slid the plate onto the glass coffee table. “Yes, I’m left-handed. I can’t even write until these bandages come off. I’m basically screwed.”
He abandoned the last few mouthfuls of his cannelloni and loaded the plates back onto the tray they arrived on, then bent and pressed his lips to mine. No tongues, just a hard, closed-mouth kiss, so quick I didn’t have time to act indignant.
“Not tonight, princess. I have to go to the office.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall behind him, a three-foot-tall homage to minimalist art in shades of green, and a rare splash of colour in the apartment. “The office? But it’s a quarter to nine.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. And I still have a day’s work to catch up on.”
“I’m sorry. That’s all my fault. Is there anything I can do to help? I mean, I know I’m incapacitated, but…”
“Shh.” He stooped, and before I realised what was happening, he’d picked me up, one arm under the crook of my knees and the other under my back. “You need to get some sleep.”
He carried me into the bedroom I’d used before and balanced me on my good foot while he flipped the comforter back. That was…strange. So far, I’d seen asshole Oliver, hard-nosed lawyer Oliver, and sexy Oliver. Kind Oliver was new, and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about him.
“I’m sorry…” I tried again.
Oliver placed a finger over my lips. “I’m sorry you got injured.”
Stealthy fingers slipped behind my bottom and slid down the zipper on my skirt. It fell to the floor, and he helped me to step out of it. Next went my top, peeled over my head and discarded beside the skirt. I felt decidedly unsexy standing there in my plain white underwear, two limbs decorated with bandages.
Oliver must have thought so too, because rather than touch me the way he had in the past, he lowered me to the mattress and gently tucked the covers around me. All I got was a kiss on the forehead before he backed towards the door. Hardly surprising—I looked like an ancient Egyptian mummy who’d started to come unravelled.
“I’ll see you later,” he whispered.
And then he was gone.
CHAPTER 22
OLIVER’S VERSION OF “later” turned out to be different to most other people’s, because when I put on the robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and shuffle-hopped out to find some breakfast the next morning, the only person in the kitchen was an older lady, in her late fifties at a guess.
As I walked through the door, she left the stove and pulled out a stool for me to perch on. “You must be Stefanie?”
I nodded. “But call me Stef. And you’re Bridget?”
“Yes, I am.” She looked me over with undisguised curiosity. “Can I get you something to eat?”
“Maybe something light?”
“Toast? Cereal? Eggs?”
“Toast would be good.”
Bridget bustled around, setting out a place mat and cutlery then fetching me a glass of juice. It looked like orange, but it didn’t taste like it.
“What’s in this?”
“Mango and carrot. Full of vitamins.”
If someone had suggested I drink carrot juice, I’d have wrinkled my nose, but it was surprisingly tasty. I finished the glass, and Bridget poured me another. She moved around the kitchen as if she cooked in it every day, which she probably did. How much involvement did she have in Oliver’s life?
“Have you worked for Oliver long?”
“Eight years now.”
“That’s a long time.”
“It’s passed quickly. Too quickly. My children were teenagers when I started here, and they’re both married with families of their own now.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Two—a boy and a girl. Lawrence moved to Europe and Veronica’s in New York now. She works for one of the big publishing houses, although she swears it’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”
“It’s probably more glamorous than waitressing.”
“Is that what you do?”
Bridget slid my toast over as I nodded. Wholemeal bread, but at least she’d been generous with the butter.
“At one of Oliver’s restaurants?”
Restaurants plural? “He’s got more than one?”
A slightly peeved look flitted across her face. Why? It was just a simple question.
“Yes, dear,” she said. “He has more than one.”
“He only mentioned Rhodium.”
“He also part-owns the Italian place on the first floor.”
I realised how little I knew about Oliver, only his occupation and the fact that he could send me into ecstasy with a touch of his fingers. Oh, and that he had assholic tendencies. What else could Bridget tell me?
“So what other investments does he have, besides the restaurants and the law firm?”
“This and that. You’ll need to speak to him if you want the details.”
I guess the answer was that Bridget could tell me a lot, but she wouldn’t, and suddenly she didn’t sound so friendly anymore.
“I bet everything must keep him really busy.”
“It does. And just because you’ve wormed your way into his home, it doesn’t mean you’ll get into his affections or his wallet as well.”
Oh, hell. She thought I was a gold-digger. “I-I-I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t want anything from him.”
“That’s what the last girl to stay here said.”
What last girl? Oliver had always given me the impression he didn’t do serious relationships, but he’d lived with a woman? Mind you, I was staying in his home, and I didn’t even want to be here.
“I don’t know anything about her, but the only reason I’m here is because I got hurt and my roommate’s working all week. She and Oliver insisted I stay. I’d gladly go home if I could.”
“So you’re only here for this week?”
“Yes. Imogen, my roommate, she’s got extra shifts at Rhodium this week because they’re short-staffed, but next week she’ll be home more.”
Bridget gave me a little smile. “In that case, I’m sorry for biting your head off. So many women have tried to get their claws into Oliver over the years, and he’s like a second son to me. One who doesn’t always know what’s best for him.”
“It doesn’t matter. Everyone needs somebody to look out for them.”
I’d love to have my own Bridget. Mom and Chester cared, but they’d never gone out of their way to fight in my corner. The closest I’d had was Chrissie and now Imogen.
“So you met Oliver through your roommate?”
“No.” I might as well tell Bridget. If she was close to Oliver, she’d most likely find out anyway. “We met through the Carter case. I’m a witness.”
She regarded me again, eyes narrowed. “Oh, so you’re that Stefanie.”
I nodded, blinking back tears. I’d never escape the judgemental looks and condescending words when people realised what I used to do for a living.
“Yes, I’m that Stefanie. But don’t worry, as soon as the case is over, I’ll have nothing to do with your precious Oliver again.”
I slid off the chair and grabbed my crutch from where I’d leaned it against the breakfast bar, then shuffle-hopped back to my room. No, not my room. The room where I’d be sleeping for the next six nights until I could escape back to normality.
I stayed in bed for the rest of the day, staring at the ceiling until I found the remote in the drawer of the nightstand. Then I switched on the TV and watched old black-and-white movies until it got dark. Back in those days, life was so much simpler. Men were gentlemen, not mercurial assholes with psyches more tangled than Rapunzel’s tresses in the middle of a hurricane.
And my own hair wasn’t much better. It had gone lank and greasy, and although I’d managed to wipe my face with a washcloth, there was little I could do about the other parts of me without help.
When I’d broken my arm before, Chrissie had taped a plastic bag over it then hopped into the shower with me to sort out my hair. Doing the job we once did meant we had few inhibitions when it came to such things. I still recalled her hoots of laughter as she kidded about setting up a webcam and making our fortunes that way. The thought of asking Bridget to do the same resulted in a weird snort, and I thanked my lucky stars no one was around to hear me.
I could probably ask Imogen to give me a hand, but not before next week, and until then, I had to put up with hair oily enough to tempt a US invasion.
And right now, I had another problem: hunger.
When my stomach growled for the eleventh time, not that I was counting or anything, I ventured back out into the dragon’s layer, only to find the apartment silent. No Oliver, no Bridget. And no lights. I squinted into the gloomy hallway, searching for the switch, but it eluded me, and I had to shuffle slowly to the kitchen, trying not to bump into the walls or the furniture. I made it with only one bashed elbow and, thankfully, managed to turn on the spotlights above the kitchen island.
Now what? There was a limit to what I could make with partial use of my left hand, and I settled on reheating a pot of cooked spaghetti I found in the refrigerator, most likely leftovers from the restaurant downstairs. Oliver’s restaurant.
Except this evening, there was no Oliver to share the food with me. Was he coming home tonight? Did he come home last night? I thought back to my day on the sofa in his office, wrapped up in a blanket drenched in his dark musk. How much time did he spend in the same place, doing the same thing?
The only sound in the apartment was the faint hum from the refrigerator as I wrapped the last strands of spaghetti around my fork, chewing slowly. Was sleeping at the office a regular thing for Oliver? Or was he avoiding me?
I began to suspect the latter when he didn’t appear on Wednesday either. Bridget made me toast in the morning without a word, and then I retreated to the bedroom once more. I longed to pull back the drapes in the lounge and sit in there to enjoy the view over the roof terrace with the city beyond, but Bridget’s presence lingered in the room like a malevolent ghost.
So I fell back into the same routine as yesterday—hiding out in my room until it was safe, then rummaging for food in the kitchen like a tramp searching through dumpsters at the end of an evening. As I poured muesli into a bowl, I cursed the ridiculous situation. Bridget would help, Oliver said. This would be so much better than staying at home.
Well, he was wrong. Damn wrong. Tomorrow, I’d call a cab and go back to Imogen’s, where I should have insisted on staying in the first place.
CHAPTER 23
THE SOUND OF the front door closing made me jump, and I looked around guiltily even though I had every right to be there. That feeling of being unwelcome had become ingrained in me over the last few years. Selling yourself did that.
&n
bsp; Shoes slapped on the tile in the hallway, and seconds later, Oliver strode into the kitchen and flicked on the rest of the lights. I’d tried to bundle my nasty hair into a ponytail, but I looked awful and no doubt smelled worse. In complete contrast, he still wore a tie, and despite the late hour, his suit didn’t have a single wrinkle.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” he asked. “And eating cereal?”
“I couldn’t find the light switches, and I’m not so great at cooking at the moment.”
“Why didn’t you ask Bridget to help?”
What was I supposed to say to that? I couldn’t think of a single answer that didn’t make me sound like a whiny first grader tattling to the teacher. And to cap it all, my eyes went itchy, and I blinked to hold back the tears.
Oliver came closer, invading my personal space. “Stefanie, tell me.”
“Uh, I don’t think Bridget likes me,” I squeaked. “But it’s okay. I’m gonna go home tomorrow.”
“No, you’re not. What did she say?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He raised my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Yes, it does.”
“She told me I couldn’t worm my way into your wallet, and then she asked how we met and I told her it was because of the Carter case and she realised who I was and looked down her nose at me like I was trash.” I barely paused for breath in that vomit of words, and now I gulped in air as the first tear trickled down my cheek.
Oliver stepped back and mouthed a curse, not looking at all happy. “I’ll speak to her. She can be overprotective, but I thought we were past this.”
“Honestly, it’s fine. I’d rather be at home, anyway. I don’t want to upset Bridget, and I don’t want your money either.”
“I know you don’t.”
He closed the gap again then leaned in to kiss me on the head, but I twisted away before his lips could touch the horrors of my hair.
“What’s wrong?”
“My hair’s yucky,” I mumbled. “The rest of me too. I can’t manage in the shower with these dressings.”
“Steffie, don’t ever describe yourself as yucky.” Despite my protests, he kissed me.