Hawkes continued, “But you still owe her a great deal, Finch-Hatten. I was ready to scrap you, and I still am.”
Wow. Gen had never heard Octavia talk that way to a client. She had dressed down James Knightly more than once, but she usually oozed politeness and sympathy for clients. The only people whom Hawkes buttered up more than the clients were the solicitors who sent them business.
“So,” Hawkes said to Arthur, “have you been behaving yourself?”
“I am a model British citizen, steadfast and earnest,” he said.
She sniffed. “You make yourself sound like a Victorian, and we all know how perverted they were. Now, if you’d like to repay Genevieve for this great kindness and favor that she’s doing for you—” Octavia’s blue eyes glittered, “—take her to lunch and then to Harrods. She needs Louboutins and Myla lingerie for the afternoon court session.”
“Now, now,” Arthur said. “I’ve heard barristers compared to hired guns, but it sounds like you’re selling something entirely different.”
“The judge is a lecher,” Gen told him. “We’re playing the Trollop Card.”
“Ah,” Arthur said. “I’m quite familiar with the concept of a honeypot. Come, Gen. We’ll find you some shoes and,” he paused, “other things.”
He held the door for her as she walked out, mincing as she took baby steps in the too-tight skirt. Damn, it was a good thing that she had shaved her legs last night.
When she looked back, Arthur was watching her butt, and when he looked up and saw that she had caught him, he smiled.
It wasn’t a sheepish smile, either. He was a gray-eyed wolf in a man’s clothing, and his steady gaze was that of a predator stalking prey.
She shot a quip at Arthur over her shoulder. “Where do you want to go for lunch?”
“My apartment.” His voice sounded more like a growl than his usual, smooth cadence.
Gen turned, shocked, but Arthur had already recovered his normal, slightly amused expression.
He said, “We had Lebanese recently. Sushi? Fish and chips?”
“Whatever you want,” Gen stammered.
The complete lack of panic in Gen’s veins surprised her. Maybe it was because Arthur was several steps behind her, not right up next to her. Maybe it was because they had known each other for a bit now, and he had backed off and never made another inappropriate move.
Maybe it was because they were walking through Octavia’s small waiting room, and Octavia’s personal admin, Germaine, and the clerk Miriam were watching Gen and Arthur with green, glittering envy pasted all over their faces.
That was a new feeling, and it ignited a warm glow in Gen’s evil little soul.
They breezed through the office, passing clerks and pupil barristers, who stared at them, and senior staff, who didn’t.
Once they were outdoors in the park-like courtyard of Lincoln’s Inn and walking through the noontime sunlight toward the stone arch and the street, Gen asked Arthur, “Don’t you think that was overstating things a bit?”
“Not at all,” he said. “We’re supposed to be dating.”
“But you’re overdoing it. No one will believe you.”
Arthur stopped and turned toward her. Winter sunlight slanted over the buildings’ roofs, casting black shadows on the straw-colored grass at their bases. A cool breeze cut through Gen’s blouse, and she crossed her arms over her chest.
His eyes looked more silvery when they were outside, and his dark hair fell across his forehead. “It wasn’t overdoing it.”
“Arthur, come on. Look, I know who and what I am. I’m a damn fine lawyer and pretty smart. I work hard, as hard as I can. I like to think that I’m loyal and kind, or at least I’m working on that, too. But I’m not pretty. I’m not skinny. On my very best days, I’m a four.”
Arthur blinked, and his mouth opened. “Rating women like that is improper.”
“All you guys do it.”
“Not me. Not my friends. It’s atrocious.”
“It is what it is, and I’m a four. A three if my hair isn’t behaving.”
“And even if we did rate women in that fashion, you’re wrong about yourself.” He looked around as if gathering himself. “You have gorgeous bone structure and a lush, ripe figure. I would have called you an eight, but that was before I saw you in this outfit. This makes you a nine-plus.”
“I’m chubby, and no one likes that, not even me.”
“The first time I saw you, I asked you to go to Majorca with me for a weekend. Surely you concede that I meant it. You certainly thought that I meant it at the time. You tried to punch me.”
“That wasn’t the first time you’d seen me. You’d just never noticed me before because no one ever does.”
“I must have been blind drunk.”
“You didn’t look like it.”
He shrugged. “That means nothing.”
They began walking toward the stone arch and the street just beyond it.
Gen said, “You picked up some of the prettier girls for a week of drunken debauchery.”
“Had I been to lunch with Horace beforehand?” Arthur mused.
“Yes.” Horace had always scheduled a lunch meeting with Arthur to converse about his case, and Gen had watched them walk out together every time.
They arrived at the Bentley, waiting for them at the curb.
Arthur opened the rear door for her and shook his head. “That man could hold his liquor. He drank me under the table every time I came into that office. No wonder I put off legal appointments until absolutely necessary.”
She asked, “Really?”
“After one of Horace’s liquid lunches, I was wrecked for the rest of the day. Often, I sent the girl shopping with Pippa and went back to my apartment to sleep it off. Lunch first, or Harrods?”
She told him, “You don’t have to buy me stuff. Hawkes wasn’t serious.”
“I was serious. Either way, let’s go.”
Gen got in the car.
Arthur shut the door behind her and ran around to climb in the other side. He tapped the back of the front seat, and Pippa swiveled on the driver’s side to look at him. Her pearl-gray hair was a little shorter today, a little more straight on the sides.
He said to the driver, “To Harrods. But to my apartment, first, since it’s so close.”
His apartment?
Gen held onto the door handle, quietly freaking out inside.
MEET THE DOG
Gen gripped the car door’s handle with one hand and clenched the other into a fist while Pippa drove. The car glided through the London traffic toward the Knightsbridge section of town, where the rich people lived.
The really rich, really upper-class people.
People like His Lordship Arthur Finch-Hatten, the Earl of Severn.
Well, Arthur would remain the Earl of Severn for as long as he didn’t lose that lawsuit brought by his brother.
And that was Gen’s job.
Hyde Park sprawled over one side of the street, bare trees reaching toward the midday sun.
An Edwardian-era apartment building occupied the other side of the street. It was as beautiful as a Victorian building, but it had been built of creamy white stone and columns and was less fussy than a Vicky.
Pippa drove the Bentley down into the underground garage and parked directly beside the elevator.
Arthur hopped out but turned to peer inside the car at Gen. “Are you coming?”
No, no, no, no, no. Not up to Arthur’s apartment, not alone with him nor alone with anyone in an apartment.
Gen tightened her grip on the door’s handle.
Pippa turned around, bracing herself on the steering wheel to twist in her seat. “The cleaning staff should be working at this time of the morning.”
Gen looked straight at her. “They will?”
“Not that there is anything to worry about at any time, day or night, but yes. A staff of ten should be in the apartment. The staff reduces to five in the evenings unt
il ten o’clock, when the staff goes home.”
“Oh.” Gen released her grip on the door handle. “Thanks for letting me know their schedule.”
“Of course.” Pippa turned back to look out the front of the car.
Gen opened her door, slithered out as modestly as that skin-tight skirt would allow, and followed Arthur to the elevator. Inside, he inserted a keycard into a security slot, entered a code into the number pad, and pressed the six on the panel.
He waited until the heavy doors thunked closed before he asked, “What was all that about?”
“Nothing,” Gen said.
The elevator rose six stories into the air, weighing on Gen’s feet in her sensible shoes, and the doors slid open to a small hallway.
The floor under her feet was dark, polished hardwood, and rough plaster covered the walls. A small table was set with a lush profusion of yellow and white fresh flowers, roses and carnations. Above them, crystal encrusted a tailored chandelier that lit the small entry area. Doors at the end of the hallway were open, and sunlight poured in.
Such a small hallway, and Gen relaxed. She had just assumed that he lived in some gargantuan mansion of an apartment that spanned half of London, probably because he was an earl and all.
But he was being sued by his brother. He was probably wasting thousands if not millions on his defense. Maybe he had had to economize.
Apartments in central London, especially in the haughty area around Hyde Park, were tiny, even the most expensive ones.
How nice, that Arthur lived in a modest space. Gen actually felt more comfortable.
He said, “I’m just going to check on my dog.”
“You have a dog?” she asked, following him toward the open double doors.
“Just a small dog,” he said. “He’s such an ornery little thing that he often gets closed up in one of the bedrooms or closets, and no one notices for hours. Sometimes, they forget to let him out for too long.”
“Out? Do they walk him over to Hyde Park to—” Gen stopped herself before she said something earthly and ranch-related, “—do his business?”
“Oh, no,” Arthur said.
They turned the corner.
An enormous living room opened up in front of them.
Gen screeched to a stop.
The walls of the long, spacious room were dark, but several sets of white couches and chairs lightened the overall effect. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened the room to the terrace outside that wrapped around the whole building.
Beyond the glass, four patio sets were surrounded by small topiaries in white pots, all perfectly trimmed into spirals and balls on sticks. The balcony jutted out on one side, where there was a small grassy area.
Arthur said, “He has a yard for his, ahem, business.”
A yard.
On the sixth floor.
How insanely extravagant.
Gen should have remembered that Arthur’s apartment required a staff of ten to clean it every day. It was huge.
Because of course, it was. Arthur was a bloody earl.
Gen was just his little lawyer who should not gawk like a prairie hen. “Nice place,” she said.
“Thanks.” He walked over and opened one of the folding glass doors that closed off the outside, leaving it open about a foot. Cool air blew into the apartment.
“So this is home, huh?” she asked.
“Spencer House is home, but it was open for Christmas until just a few days ago and will be open for two more weekends. Sometimes I go back during the week, but mostly I stay here in town.” He laughed. “It’s the opposite of what my ancestors did. They retreated to their country houses to escape the heat and smell of the London summer and lived in town during the winter.”
“Oh, yeah,” Gen said, trying in vain to look sophisticated and like she had known that and understood the irony.
“I’ll be right back. If you’d like something to drink, the staff should be around.” He jogged to the other end of the room—jogged because the room was so enormous—and disappeared into another door.
Gen turned, surveying the living room. On the one long side, the living room opened to the balcony.
On the other side of the room, plants topped a half-wall. Beyond that, short stairs led down to a dining room with a long table set for eighteen people. Bookcases behind the dining table rose two stories into the air, stuffed with books and small pieces of art and pottery.
Somewhere far inside the apartment, barking echoed on the mirrored columns and glass walls.
Arthur came jogging back. A small Jack Russell Terrier was chasing Arthur’s heels and nipping at his pants legs. The dog was mostly white, but brown stained its ears and face except for a white stripe that ran between its eyes and over its head. His ears were below Arthur’s knees as they ran.
When Arthur was halfway through the room, the dog broke off its pursuit and streaked for the door that Arthur had left ajar. It sprinted outside to the grass area and skidded to lift its leg against the one dying topiary bush on a corner of the lawn.
Gen could see the relief on the dog’s face as he peed for minutes.
“Got to him in time today,” Arthur said. “I don’t know how he keeps getting locked up. I’ve spoken to the staff about it a number of times, but they don’t know how he continues to get trapped in bedrooms and closets. He’s just a naughty little dog.”
“Yeah, dogs often resemble their owners,” Gen said.
The dog shook off everything and bounded inside and over to them. From his exuberant body language—lolling tongue, perked ears, and wagging tail—Gen could see that he was more than friendly as he approached.
“What’s his name?” Gen asked.
“Ruckus.”
The dog skidded to a stop at her feet and then bounced in place, bounding as high as the middle of her chest with each hop. “Suits him.”
Arthur said, “I think it became a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“He sure has a lot of energy.”
“He’s a young dog, scarcely more than a puppy. He might still have a bit of growing to do.”
The dog bounded closer, pushing off Arthur’s chest at the top of each bounce with his front paws.
Gen asked, “How long was he locked up?”
Arthur frowned. “I left a few hours ago. I had some business meetings this morning. Couldn’t have been too long.”
Ruckus bounced a few more times and settled, though his tail was whipping around so hard that his butt was wagging. His white coat shone in the sunlight, clean and healthy. From what Gen could see, his claws had been trimmed and perhaps painted with clear polish.
“He’s cute,” Gen said.
“I’ve only had him a few months.”
Gen crouched down and scratched the dog’s ears.
He jumped up on his rear legs and licked her face before she could move out of the way, taking a swipe of foundation and rouge on his slobbery tongue.
“Oh, good Lord!” Arthur started to reach for him.
Gen laughed because she had grown up around plenty of farm dogs.
“Now, now. Down!” She laid her fingers on Ruckus’s nose and guided him downward to sit.
The dog flopped over on his back and squirmed, and she switched to rubbing his belly. His clean fur was silky under her palm.
Arthur retreated and watched her petting the dog. “A friend of mine, Maxence, found him in Africa, abandoned and starving, when he was just half-grown. Max cannot let a creature suffer, so he took him in and brought him to me just a few days later when he came to London for business. I think he’s mostly Jack Russell Terrier, though I’m not sure what he was doing on the streets of Africa.”
“Must have been quite a culture shock for him, going from starving in Africa to a—” Gen paused, but the word was precise, “—London penthouse.”
“I cannot imagine what was going through Max’s head. He should have taken the dog to a mutual friend of ours, Caz, who has an impending family and a large pr
operty outside of Los Angeles for a dog to run to his heart’s content. Instead he brought the dog to a single man who travels constantly, lives a debauched lifestyle, is out until all hours of the night, and lives in a confined apartment in central London.”
“Maybe Max thought that you needed him more.” Oops, had that slipped out? She stopped petting the dog and stood.
Luckily, Arthur laughed. “I’ve always thought that Max might have a well-hidden sadistic streak. Perhaps he thought owning a dog would be ‘good for me.’ He is trying to save the world.”
The dog flipped over and sat up, resting one of his paws on Arthur’s shoe while he whined.
“Is he?” Gen was just making conversation sounds.
“Aren’t we all?” Arthur reached down and ruffled the dog’s ears, then brushed off his pants legs where the dog had been pawing him. “All right, now that I’ve rescued the dog from imprisonment once again, let’s go see what they have at Harrods.”
Ruckus followed them all the way to the door of the apartment, nipping at Arthur’s heels in a desperate bid for attention, and Arthur gently nudged him back inside as the elevator doors slid closed.
Gen fidgeted, uneasy. That little dog needed exercise and not to be cooped up, even if that apartment was probably a dozen times larger in square footage than the parcel of land that her mother’s terraced house stood on. Having grown up on a ranch in Texas, she had been around and understood all sorts of animals: cattle, horses, cats, and dogs. That little pooch needed more than what Arthur could give him.
She asked, “Did you have dogs growing up?”
“Oh, yes,” Arthur said.
Okay, maybe he did understand dogs. Gen shrugged as the elevator descended, jiggling as it lowered them toward the car garage.
Arthur continued, “My father had a pack of beagles for hunting when I was a child, but they were given away after my parents died and Christopher and I were packed off for other parts.”
Kind of like barn cats or a cattle herd, then.
“But those aren’t pets,” she said. “Didn’t you have pets?”
“Pets weren’t allowed in the dorms of Le Rosey. Max managed to keep a field mouse that came in for a few years, feeding it from what he managed to smuggle back from the cafeteria. It was very fat and slept in a shoe box. It lived a few years, a better-than-average lifespan and lifestyle for a wild mouse.”
Stiff Drink: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #1 Page 15