by Alam, Donna
‘Listen, you . . . ’—Downton Abbey reject—‘this is a restaurant that, by definition, sells food. I am a person who possesses money’—fine, a credit card— ‘who requires food. So how about we work out some kind of exchange?’ I gesture between us quite violently, if a finger can ever be considered violent.
‘Madam!’
‘I prefer miss, actually.’
‘Nevertheless, Madam, we are fully booked this evening. And even if we were not, I’m afraid this establishment does not accept walk-in diners.’ The latter he says with such a lofty air, anyone would think he said we rarely accept streetwalking diners. But even streetwalkers need to eat, don’t they?
I am seconds away from doing something that could well result in my removal from the premises wearing handcuffs when the door behind me opens again. Just you dare give them a table, and I’ll sue you for discrimination. After I tie those coat-tails up over your ears. But as a hand cups my shoulder, I turn.
‘What . . .’ I begin, my words trailing off as I look up into the face of the man I’d fallen on this morning. ‘You with the feet!’
‘Yes. Last time I checked, I had two of them.’
‘But what are you doing here?’ The words are in the air without my permission, his answer stealing any breath I have left.
‘That’s simple. I followed you.’
Chapter 4
OLIVIA
‘I’m sorry, what?’ And also, WTF? And why am I now looking at his shoes? His big shoes. Because big shoes mean big feet, and big feet mean—
‘Of course, I haven’t followed you.’ At his disparaging tone, my head whips up so fast I almost give myself whiplash.
‘Why would you say that if it isn’t true?’
He sighs, actually sighs, as though I’m boring him. ‘I see your mood hasn’t improved. It’s quite all right, Peter,’ he adds, his attention moving on from me. ‘The lady is my guest.’
Guest what? Guest I wasn’t paying enough attention?
Should I be looking for a hidden camera?
‘Very well,’ Peter returns in a tone no less haughty. As for his expression, I can’t tell because I’m still looking at the man behind me. Eyes the colour of fine whisky and hair like dark wheat. Maybe I’m thirsty. Maybe that’s why I’m still standing here. Or maybe it’s because our paths have crossed twice in one day; that’s got to be the universe pulling strings. Right?
‘Shall we?’ The man’s lush mouth tilts in one corner in something that resembles a genuine smile, a far cry from his sardonic offering this morning. I find myself nodding in response. It’s probably shock.
He’s still wearing the grey suit, his shirt now open at the neck. For a moment, I consider what I’d look like if I’d worn the same clothes all day, and the words homeless person spring to mind. Meanwhile, he still looks like the star of a Gucci ad campaign. Like David Gandy’s haughtier twin.
His hand cups my elbow as if I’m his elderly maiden aunt as he leads me through the archway and into a dark and sumptuous interior. The walls of the dining room are painted the colour of fine claret, the wooden floors gleaming like dark tinted mirrors. We come to a stop, the maître d’ obsequiously bidding me to sit. But I don’t. I just stare at the oxblood-coloured leather upholstery as though the chair is alien. I raise my head, staring at the snooty elderly penguin and then at the stranger opposite who seems to be watching with barely contained amusement.
Am I only just coming to my senses?
I feel like I’ve been hijacked, press ganged by polite pirates. Are they going to kill me with kindness? A very cold and sterile kind of kindness?
‘I think this is a mistake,’ I begin, still standing, still ignoring both men. I’m no one’s charity case. Besides, what happens if he’s expecting company for dinner? Or a date? I know it all sounds so ridiculous, but after the day I’ve had, if a troupe of clowns came dancing through the place, I’m not sure I’d be surprised.
‘Really, I can’t—’
‘Be a good girl and sit down,’ the stranger he replies, his tone fairly dripping in ennui.
‘Oh. I’m so sorry. Am I boring you?’
The last person who called me a good girl was my grandfather, and it was usually accompanied by a pat on the head and a barley sugar candy he’d produce from a tin and then fold into my sticky hand. And he always made it sound like a compliment, not a scolding for being tiresome or dull. So why exactly have I dropped into the seat opposite him?
‘That’s better,’ he murmurs, seating himself as a waiter appears at the table. He opens my starched napkin with a flourish before laying it across my lap before a heavy leather-bound menu is passed into my companion’s hand.
‘I owe the lady a glass of champagne,’ he murmurs, passing the unopened menu back. ‘A bottle of the Ruinart ’98, I think.’ He may be bossy, but he also has a very pretty mouth, and I can’t seem to stop watching the shapes it makes without even comprehending the words.
‘Of course,’ the sommelier, I guess, returns in a modulated tone. ‘The rosé, sir?’
Both gazes turn my way, one narrowing in an echo of this morning. Before I decide they’re waiting for me to answer, he murmurs, ‘Yes, I believe so.’
Apparently, I look like a girl who drinks vintage blush champagne? I’m not normally the kind of girl whose cheeks look stained by the stuff, yet I feel them burning all the same.
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ I say, my hands moving the silverware on the table in front a few millimetres to the left. My eyes also remain glued to the task.
‘I owe you an apology.’ My head rises at his even tone. ‘I’d like to say this morning’s behaviour was out of character, but that would be a lie.’
‘You mean you often trip up unsuspecting passers-by?’
‘No. I usually do much worse.’
With a half-smile that can only be described as provocative, he adds, ‘I was very curt.’
My responding laughter has a nervous edge because what’s the difference between now and this morning? And being told you’re owed an apology and hearing one are two different things, aren’t they? Discomforted, I glance at the bank of windows to my right. I feel like I’ve disappeared into another realm, yet outside, the evening carries on uninterrupted. Londoners passing by this rich oasis without even detecting the mirage before them. Maybe if I’d approached from the other end of the street, I might not have noticed it, either. And that’s obviously the point—this place is a kind of exclusive enclave where regular folk are unwelcome. Which kind of makes sense when I re-examine the glacial response to my entrance.
The whole place just reeks of money. The rich interior, the low and soothing background music, and the unobtrusive waitstaff who are invisible until a diner lifts a finger and then they reappear out of nowhere. The furniture is so comfortable it seems to suck the life right out of you, which is perhaps why our fellow diners’ conversations are being carried on at levels scarcely above a hum.
The champagne arrives, and once poured, I settle for making a v of my fingers over the base of the glass.
‘I draw the line at poisoning my guests.’
Not for the first time, I realise why this kind of accent is described as cut glass. His diction is so sharp he’s almost pierced skin. His sharp jaw flexes with something like annoyance as his own fingers wrap around the stem of the glass, and he brings it to his mouth.
‘I’m not afraid of being roofied, if that’s what you’re imagining. But I’m also not entirely sure I’m your guest.’
‘I don’t remember frog-marching you into the dining room. I invited you to join me. By that very definition, you are my guest.’
‘Well, thank you.’ I suppose. Eventually, I lift my own glass and take a sip, allowing the cool bubbles to roll over my tongue.
‘I’m Olivia, by the way.’ I set the glass down but don’t offer him my hand. The moment feels a little too odd to be covering the pleasantries now.
Odd. That’s like the word of the day.
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‘Beckett,’ he offers in response with a slight tilt of his glass.
‘Is that your first name or last?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not. I’m just making conversation.’ One-sided conversation, it seems. ‘It’s a little weird that’s all you’ll offer, though.’
‘Like I live to intrigue you.’
‘So just Beckett. Like just Madonna or just Beyoncé or just—?’
‘Beckett will do.’
With a shrug, I find myself taking another sip or three of my champagne. And as he opens the menu, I take the opportunity to really look at him. I know I looked this morning, but this time, I take a thorough inventory from a different perspective. For one thing, I’m not sprawled across the pavement.
He’s tall and powerfully built. He looks like the kind of man who’d participate in triathlons for fun and barely break a sweat. His suit is summer weight wool and probably tailor-made, and his white shirt is still pristine. Long, elegant fingers with square nails buffed to a shine. Even without the sharp suit and chauffeur-driven car, it’s obvious he uses his head and not his hands for work. If he even works.
And speaking of heads, the classical arrangement of his features should lend towards movie-star good looks, but something about him is just a little too wicked. He has the kind of face that would stop a girl in her tracks. Not only because he’s handsome but also because his looks are even intimidating. There’s something powerful about him, something innate. Even just perusing the menu, he looks kind of threatening, his expression as focussed as a hound on the scent of a hare. He’s older, too. But not old, exactly. Thirty-six or thirty-seven, maybe?
I jump as the sound of the heavy-bound menu hits the table.
‘You look like you’re about to bolt.’ His smile is a touch haughty.
‘Is that an observation or a recommendation?’
‘It would be a shame. I hadn’t expected such lovely company this evening.’
‘Strange. I was thinking about your looks, too. ’ Because he can’t be talking about my personality. We’re not exactly chatting like old friends.
‘Should I prepare for an insult?’ he drawls, placing his forearms on the arms of the chair with his fingers steepled as though his tone wasn’t enough of a challenge.
‘I decided that while all outward signs point to you being a gentleman, I think . . . the illusion ends there.’ And I still didn’t hear an apology.
‘I knew you weren’t just a pretty face.’ Completely unfazed, he picks up the menu once again. ‘Shall we order?’
Despite the swanky surroundings, I order my usual go-to of risotto, this one containing a type of mushroom I can’t even begin to pronounce. It’s also served with truffle shavings over the usual serving of parmesan. I send a silent prayer to the heavens that my selection isn’t wildly expensive because it seems this isn’t the kind of establishment that would sully its menu by including prices, unfortunately. Beckett orders chalk stream trout, which sounds fancy enough to come without a price tag, even if I do find myself biting back a smile.
‘What’s so amusing?’ he asks after dictating his order to the waiter.
‘I’m not allowed to smile?’ Something inside me unfurls. No way am I telling him I’m relieved he’s ordered fish. This really is just a platonic dinner and a case of being in the wrong place at the right time. Or wrong time, depending on your perspective.
Maybe wrong should be the word of the day, not odd.
‘I get the feeling you smile a lot, but maybe just not around me.’
‘Come on, we’ve met twice, and spent, what . . .?’ I make a show of looking at my watch. ‘Thirty minutes together, tops?’
‘So far,’ he answers inscrutably. ‘Though I hope it’s thirty minutes out of many, many more.’
And that’s just confusing. Who orders fish if they’re hoping to get to know you better? Which, let’s face it, is just boy-speak for hoping to get into your underwear.
So not happening.
I don’t even like him, right?
From here, things fall into a comfortable pattern. Or less strange, anyway. Conversation moves along with few gaps, and Beckett fills the potential awkwardness with a wry observation or an anecdote with a thoroughly practised ease.
‘What brought you to town this morning?’ he asks as the waiter fills my glass again. It’s like my glass is one of those toy baby bottles I had as a kid, the kind that came in the box with a new doll, because I tip my glass to my lips, and by the time it’s straight, it’s full again. Like magic. In my defence, I’m also trying to match the levels of champagne with the fancy Norwegian water also served to the table.
‘I had a meeting in the building you tripped me outside of. On the thirty-fifth floor.’ That’s as far as I’ll go unless pushed for details. ‘And I suppose you were there for kicks? Did you trip many more unsuspecting passers-by?’
‘Remember, I said I do much worse. And usually in the same building.’ Over the rim of his glass, his eyes gleam. Maybe it’s the light. Or the champagne. Or maybe I should drink more water.
‘What is it you do? You know, when you’re not behaving atrociously?’
‘Hmm.’ He taps his finger against his chin. ‘If I’m not behaving badly, then I must be asleep.’
‘No, seriously,’ I say with a giggle. Giggling. Also not a great sign. ‘What do you do for a living?’ Because, surely, everyone works. Even rich people. I come from a fairly affluent background myself, but everyone has some kind of vocation. Like my grandfather. He was a pharmacist and owned a chain of drug stores to support his family. On second examination, something tells me Beckett is on a whole other level.
‘I’m in finance.’
‘Ah, so you are in league with the devil then?’
Our joint mirth is interrupted by the delivery of an entrée of bite-sized crab cakes.
‘Here, try one.’ Beckett pushes the plate into the middle of the table, but I shake my head.
‘No, thank you. I’m not a fan of seafood.’
‘Crab cakes aren’t seafood,’ he says with an air of having heard something ridiculous.
‘Crabs live in the sea; ergo, it’s seafood.’
‘Try one, for goodness’ sake.’ Both his lips and voice tighten. ‘Don’t be a baby.’
‘Don’t be a baby?’ I repeat a little incredulously.
‘Yes, your hearing is perfectly fine. Eat a crab cake.’
‘How about . . .’—you eat a dick—‘no,’ I add at the last minute and much more politely.
‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’ His gaze narrows, his expression suddenly thoughtful and not the good kind of thoughtful. The kind where he looks as though he’s considering force-feeding me just to prove his point.
‘What if I was allergic to seafood? What if I went into anaphylaxis?’
‘Then I expect you’d have said that seafood was verboten. And I, myself, wouldn’t have ordered fish.’
‘If I’d been allergic, it wouldn’t mean you couldn’t have fish.’
‘But what if I’d wanted to kiss you? And not to give you the kiss of death?’
His gaze is so intent I feel I need to wrap my hands around the arms of the chair to stop them from dithering. Does he want to kiss me? But before I can analyse that thought, Beckett tears one of the tiny morsels open with his long fingers and then pops a piece into his mouth. His eyes roll closed as he savours it, and I must admit—to myself, at least—that it does smell really good.
‘So we’ve established you don’t like seafood, you’re in need of finance, and you’re a colonial.’
‘I never said I needed finance.’
He waves off my protest. ‘The companies on the thirty-fifth floor all deal in business finance of some sort. Meanwhile, we’ve also determined that I’m on first-name terms with Satan, that I think you’re rather lovely, and that I might like to kiss you.’
Chapter 5
OLIVIA
‘Play with me
, more like.’
My answer is immediate, the words in the air in all their brash incredulousness, because if this is the way he treats people he thinks are lovely, I’m so pleased I’m not his enemy. But he wants to kiss me with that gorgeous mouth of his. What would that be like, I wonder. Soft, I decide, at least to start with. Powerful. Demanding. The kind of kiss that makes your knees weak.
‘How old are you, Olivia?’
‘You’re not supposed to ask a lady her age,’ I reply, wondering where the conversation will hop to next.
‘Young women aren’t generally so reticent. Or maybe you want me to guess? Twenty-four? Twenty-three?’
‘Fine. I’m twenty-seven.’ Practically. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m older than that.’
‘Well, duh.’ Not my finest response as these things go.
‘But not too old,’ he adds, the hint of a sparkle back in his gaze. ‘And what about tonight?’
‘Tonight, I’m half a day older than I was this morning. What about it?’ I add when I realise he’s not going to bite.
Bite . . .
My eyes are almost riveted to his mouth as he feeds himself what suddenly seems like small bites of heaven. Seafood seems to appeal to a stomach full of nothing but champagne.
‘You’re sure you wouldn’t like some?’ I shake my head even as he uses his fork to slice a crab cake in half before offering it to me. ‘They’re delicious.’ A ghost of a smile hovers on his face as the fork dances in front of me. I finally concede, lifting my hand to take it from him, but he moves it away. I roll my eyes, then open my mouth anyway. Don’t judge. The smell is divine, plus I really do need something to soak up the alcohol.
‘Good, right?’
I nod as I use my napkin to gently pat the sides of my mouth. Not that I need to, but I need to do something because he’s looking at me. Studying me, almost. Like a butterfly pinned to a piece of felt.