Mismatch

by Tracie Delaney

As her eyes scanned the typeface, her lids slowly began to droop. The book fell into her lap, and she felt herself drifting through that heavenly moment between consciousness and slumber.

  And then her damn phone dinged with a text.

  Her eyes snapped open. If that was Kyle, she would cut his goddamn balls off. Metaphorically, of course. Unfortunately, grievous bodily harm to one’s cheating ex wasn’t acceptable in civilised society. More’s the pity.

  She lifted her phone. The text was from a mobile but not a number she recognised.

  With a frown, she read the message: How about dinner tomorrow night?

  It was signed “RFW.”

  Her immediate thought was, Are you fucking kidding me?

  And… it didn’t stay a thought. She stabbed out those five words into her phone and hit Send.

  His reply came straight back:

  Aww, come on, Jayne. I’ll make sure you have fun. Go on, change the habit of a lifetime and let your hair down.

  He’d even added a winking emoji at the end.

  Jayne decided that engaging in a tit-for-tat texting session wouldn’t get her anywhere. Instead, she turned down the volume on her phone, set it upside down so the light going off wouldn’t disturb her, and buried her head under the covers.

  She was vaguely aware of a couple more texts arriving—which she studiously ignored—but at last sleep claimed her.

  The following morning, she arrived at the office before seven thirty. It would be an hour or so before Donna arrived, so she started the coffee percolator, which her absolute gem of a PA had already prepared the previous day for a straight switch-on.

  She sank into her chair. Another rammed day loomed ahead. She needed a holiday—some downtime. Sand, sun, and a never-ending supply of mojitos sounded like… an impossible dream, given her caseload. Right then, she vowed that as soon as the three imminent cases she was working on were over, she’d take a break. She could at least fit in a long weekend in Barcelona, a city that had everything: culture, great food, and a damn fine beach.

  The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Donna had left a gap in Jayne’s diary to allow her to grab some lunch. God bless that woman. Her PA would happily grab her a bite to eat, but Jayne preferred to get her own. The fifteen minutes standing in a queue at the deli was often the only break she got.

  As Jayne rose from her chair to go and get a sandwich, a light tap sounded at her door.

  “Come in,” she called out.

  Donna poked her head into Jayne’s office. “I know you’re probably going to lunch soon, but you have a visitor.”

  Jayne mouthed, “Not Kyle?”

  Donna shook her head, but before she could explain who the visitor was, the office door eased wide-open, and standing there with a foppish grin to rival Hugh Grant was Rupert Fox-Whittingham.

  “Sorry to disturb,” he said, his expression the direct opposite of his apologetic words. He flashed Donna a full-on white-toothed smile. “Thanks, darling. You’re a dream.”

  Donna blushed and coyly dipped her head. Jayne repressed a groan. Her PA wasn’t a blusher. Damn Rupert Fox-Whittingham and his plum-in-the-mouth charm. Donna gave Jayne a contrite smile as Rupert sauntered into her office and made himself at home on her couch.

  As the door closed with a quiet click, Rupert crossed his legs, spread his right arm over the back of her sofa, and patted the spare seat beside him. “Come and sit with me, Jayne.”

  She ignored his invitation, choosing instead to sit back behind her desk. “What are you doing here, Mr Fox-Whittingham?”

  “You didn’t answer my texts.”

  “No, that’s right. I didn’t. And normally, when one is ignored, one gets the hint.”

  He grinned at her, the smile slowly reaching his warm chocolate eyes and making them sparkle like diamonds set against a velvet backdrop. She turned away. She didn’t want to notice his eyes. She had sworn off men, and this posh git wasn’t about to change that, especially as he was a client.

  “And because you didn’t answer, you gave me no choice but to turn up here at your—may I say—delightful offices to extend my invitation to dinner in person.”

  Jayne held back a laugh. The man was a walking, talking throwback to the fifties.

  “Well, I’m sorry you had a wasted journey,” Jayne said, pointing her pen at the door. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a very busy afternoon.”

  That smile came at her again, slowly inching its way into her psyche. She turned away and began to write utter rubbish on her pad. Doodles, random words, anything to avoid those come-to-bed eyes and inviting smile.

  A slight rustle reached her ears, but she refused to look up—until the damn man perched his left buttock on the corner of her desk. The corner right beside her.

  She held her body still. Only her head moved. She fixed him with the disdainful stare usually reserved for Kyle. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “Moving closer.” He bent his head until his nose was about an inch from her hair. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You smell of summer, Jayne. Intoxicating.”

  A fluttering set off in her abdomen. Oh no, this was not happening. She needed this man out of her office. Right now.

  She pushed back her chair and got to her feet. Avoiding his end of the desk, she strode across to the other side of her office and opened the door. “As I said, Mr Fox-Whittingham, I’m busy. I’m very glad that I could be of service to you yesterday, but as our business is concluded, I would like you to leave.”

  Rupert ambled towards her, his gait that of a man who was uberconfident and usually got what he wanted. Well, isn’t disappointment a bitch.

  As he reached her, he paused. “Just one dinner. How bad could it be?”

  “I don’t go on dinner dates with my clients.”

  “You just said our business was concluded.”

  “Or ex-clients. Goodbye, Mr Fox-Whittingham.”

  He leaned forward, and his breath caressed the shell of her ear as he whispered, “I’m starting to like it when you call me that.”

  And with a final quick wink, he left.

  6

  Rupe closed the door behind him, still wearing the smile he’d had in Jayne’s office. Christ, that frosty exterior was going to be fun to melt. He wasn’t put off in the slightest by her summary dismissal. In fact, the challenge she posed made him more excited than he’d felt in a long time. With his wealth, success with women came easily. The difficulty was finding a woman who intrigued, who put fire in his belly, and who, with a simple haughty stare, pumped enough blood to his cock to keep him stiff all day.

  And more than that, despite her frostiness, he liked her.

  Outside Jayne’s office, he flagged down a passing black cab and gave his home address. The traffic was light, so he arrived home in fifteen minutes. As he entered through the front door, his phone rang. A spike of hope that it might be Jayne zinged through his gut. He took his phone out of his pocket. Unfortunately, optimism was replaced with reality.

  “Thanks for the update.” Cash’s irritated voice almost sliced through his eardrum.

  Rupe nudged the front door closed. “Sorry, bud. I’ve been a bit distracted.”

  “I had to call the fucking station and put up with some condescending prick telling me they’d finished their questioning last night and let you go.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I’m still a bit all over the place.”

  “So that’s it?” Cash said.

  “I’m hoping so.”

  “What did your lawyer say?”

  A delicious shiver vibrated down Rupe’s spine. “Not much. Just if they pulled me in again to call her.”

  “That’s good advice. Follow it.”

  Oh, I’ll be following it all right.

  “Are you going to make it over to see us before you go back to the Caribbean?” Cash asked.

  “The police want me to stick around until this business with Nessa is sorted out.” That fact had irritated him at first,
but now he quite liked the excuse of having to remain in London. It meant he could work on defrosting Jayne without awkward questions from Cash, who knew him too well. Rupe rarely spent more than a week at a time in London. “So, yeah, I’ll pop across in the next couple of days.”

  “Okay, great. Stay in touch, dickhead.”

  He smiled as Cash cut the call. He might not see as much of his friend as he used to since Cash and Tally had moved out of London—they preferred the countryside of Gloucestershire to bring up their kids—but they were always there if he needed them.

  He fetched his laptop from his study and took it through to the kitchen. After putting a pot of coffee on, he began researching Ms Jayne Seymour. If he had any chance of persuading her to come to dinner, he needed an angle. In his experience, women only gave off such strong signals for men to keep away when they’d been badly hurt.

  Time to find out how Jayne had got her scars.

  As Jayne turned up for work on Friday, she made two promises to herself: one, she wasn’t working past six that night, and two, she was going to leave all her casework in the office and take the entire weekend off. She’d go to see Ganny, maybe stay over. And then, on Sunday, she could take the bus down to the coast. The sea air would regenerate her depleted batteries as it always did. She had to do something. She recognised the signs of burnout all too well.

  Jayne waved at the night guard as she acknowledged to herself that she rarely saw daytime security. She usually arrived before their shift began and left after it had ended—another reason to keep promise number two.

  The lift doors opened at her floor, and she juggled her laptop, her bag full of files, her handbag, and her keys. When getting the key in the lock proved to be a struggle, she dropped her bags on the floor, making the job of opening up much easier.

  As she nudged at the door, the first thing that hit her was the smell. Her nostrils filled with the sweet scent of flowers. Pushing the door wide, she froze. Her office was full of white and pink roses. A bouquet sat on top of every available surface, including the narrow window ledge.

  Leaving her bags outside, Jane edged farther into the room. She wandered around, touching the odd petal, the silkiness pleasant beneath her fingers. She looked for a card but couldn’t see one.

  “Wow, did someone mistake your office for a florist’s?”

  Jayne turned to find Donna leaning against the doorframe, an expression of amazement on her face.

  Jayne narrowed her eyes. “Do you know anything about this? How did they get in here?”

  Donna shook her head. “No idea. It’s pretty cool, though. You’ve clearly got an admirer.” She stepped over the threshold and stuck her nose into the nearest bouquet, sniffing deeply. “And one with a few bob to spare.”

  As Donna said that, a realisation hit Jayne. Of course. This was just the sort of over-the-top gesture someone as rich as Rupert Fox-Whittingham would go for. She ground her teeth and let out a deep breath through her nose. Stepping behind her desk, she noticed a couple of bouquets in their own individual water pockets. Jayne moved them to one side and found an envelope with her name scrawled on the front in black ink.

  She stuck her nail into the flap, opened it, and pulled out the note:

  “Roses remind me of you, Jayne. Sweet scented, beautiful, intriguing. But get too close, and those thorns will tear through flesh with ease.”

  The note had no signature, but it wasn’t necessary. That message was all the confirmation she needed. With her annoyance increasing to full-on anger, she scooped the bouquets off her desk and dumped them on the floor.

  “Donna,” she said, her tone clipped and businesslike, making her PA stand up straight and replace the look of awe with a more professional expression. “Arrange to have these flowers taken to the nearest old people’s home, would you? And then cancel my morning appointments.”

  It hadn’t taken Jayne very long to find out where Rupert Fox-Whittingham laid his head at night. As the taxi pulled up outside the large country-style house covered in ivy and—goddammit—roses over the door, her stomach twisted with annoyance. The problem with moneyed guys who also happened to be good-looking was that they thought they could have anything they wanted.

  Well, she was there to tell Mr Fox-Whittingham once and for all that she wasn’t for sale. At any price.

  As she walked to the front door, her heels sank into the gravel. Stupid, pretentious driveway. What’s wrong with good old-fashioned tarmac? Or paving flags? The only thing worse than gravel for a woman wearing heels was cobbles. Both must have been created by men who wanted to have a chuckle at women’s expense.

  The strap on her bag fell down her arm as she reached up to rap on the door. She reset it on her shoulder and knocked a couple of times.

  When the door opened, her mouth was already open, ready to give him a piece of her mind. The sight of a woman in her midforties standing in the hallway made it snap shut. Her dark hair was fashioned into a bun, wisps skimming her cheeks where they’d managed to break free from the many bobby pins.

  “Hi,” the woman said in a friendly tone as she rubbed her flour-covered hands down her apron.

  Jayne rocked back on her heels. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Rupert Fox-Whittingham. I must have the wrong house.”

  “No, no, dear. You’re at the right place. I’m his housekeeper. Please do come in.” She stepped back from the doorstep and gestured for her to enter.

  “Oh, I can’t stay. I just need a quick word.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “No need to stand on the front step when there’s a house full of rooms. Plus, I need a female opinion on the chocolate cake I made earlier.”

  And with that, leaving the front door wide open with Jayne hovering at the entrance, Rupert’s housekeeper turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway.

  Jayne expelled a sigh. This was not going to plan. She stepped inside the house and shut the door behind her. With her heels clacking on the stone floor, she followed in the direction she thought the housekeeper had gone. The generous hallway had several rooms to the left and right with their doors closed. Jayne followed her nose and found herself inside a large farmhouse-style kitchen—all oak cupboards and wooden tops, oiled to perfection. In the centre of the room was a huge island with chairs nestled beneath and various stainless-steel pans hanging overhead.

  “I’m Abi.” The housekeeper placed a three-tiered chocolate cake on the centre island. She took out a large knife from a wooden block on the countertop and sliced into the cake. “You must be Jayne.”

  Jayne tilted her head in surprise. “How do you know my name?”

  Abi waved her hand dismissively before sticking a large triangular piece of chocolate cake on a plate and pushing it across to Jayne. “Rupert told me. He saw you getting out of the cab, asked me to let you in, and then disappeared off somewhere. He’ll be back shortly, no doubt.”

  Jayne stiffened. She stared down at her hands and found she was clenching and unclenching them. He was unbelievable. He’d guessed why she’d come and used a stupid tactic to get her inside his house. Her face heated as anger flushed through her system.

  “I’ll bet he did,” she muttered under her breath, and then said in a louder voice, “I can’t stay, unfortunately. Work and all that. I’ll text him.”

  As she turned around, she came face-to-face with Rupert. He was standing with his arms braced on either side of the door to the kitchen, his white long-sleeved shirt stretched across the tight, flat muscles of his chest. Not looking at his chest. Nope. Nothing to see there. She dragged her gaze to his face. The damned man was laughing at her.

  “Leaving already, Jayne? Surely not before we’ve had chance to chat.”

  She crossed the kitchen and stood right in front of him. “I came by to tell you that the local old people’s home very much appreciates your kind gift. Oh, and to say that if you keep harassing me, or break into my office again, waking up next to a dead woman will be the least of your problems.
”

  Rupert’s lips curved into a smirk. “See, I was right about the thorns. Thing is, Jayne, I have a very high pain threshold. A few scratches here and there aren’t likely to damage me.”

  “Probably not,” she said, forcing her lips into a smile that no doubt looked more like a grimace. “But a knee to the balls will. So hear me loud and clear. I’m. Not. Interested. Got it?”

  Rupert threw back his head and laughed. “You are enchanting. Fascinating. Come on. One dinner. That’s all I ask. And if, by the end of the night, the thought of me still makes your skin crawl, I’ll back away, and you’ll never have to see me again.”

  Jayne rubbed her fingers over her lips as she considered the offer from the annoying-as-hell man who stood before her, his arms still barring her exit. His actions so far told her he wasn’t simply going to disappear or leave her in peace, and while she could get rid of him legally by slapping a restraining order on him, she didn’t want to do that. He didn’t deserve such harsh treatment, and in the unlikely event the police did come sniffing around again, asking more questions about the death of Vanessa Reynolds, it wouldn’t look good if his own lawyer had taken out a restraining order. He was as annoying as a fly buzzing round her head, though. If only she could swat him away so easily. Or squirt him with a good dose of Raid.

  “Fine,” she said, drawing a winning smile from Rupert. “One dinner. Tonight, or never. And I want to eat at The Berkeley.”

  She added the latter with a wicked smile. Getting a table at The Berkeley at such short notice would be nigh on impossible, which would mean she’d be able to legitimately renege on the deal. At least trying to secure a booking would give him something to do for the rest of the day.

  “Perfect,” he said, not even remotely thrown by her set of demands. “Marcus Wareing is a dear friend. I’m sure he’ll sort me out. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.”

  Jayne inwardly cursed. Marcus Wareing was the owner of the Michelin-starred restaurant at The Berkeley. She’d thrown down an impossible challenge only to find that the man standing in front of her was more than up to the task. With an irritated huff, she brushed past him and walked outside, feeling manipulated and backed into a corner.