by Dixon
Illicit Affairs
Holly Dixon
Copyright © 2021 by Holly Dixon
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fictions. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Holly Dixon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
* * *
Editing by Beth Attwood — find out more on Reedsy.com
Cover art by www.booksandmoods.com
Front cover by Shutterstock
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
About The Author
Glossary
This book is dedicated to my mother.
From a young age, she always encouraged me to be creative and channel that into writing.
Twenty-seven years later and I finally have something to show for the creative streak she passed down to me.
This one’s for you Mum :)
One
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman is better at timekeeping and multitasking than a man. Whoever spread such nonsense was a tit in Ava’s book.
This was the part of her working week that she had been dreading the most as she finally stopped her alarm on the twentieth snooze and reluctantly peeled the covers back from her face. Lemony light invaded the bedroom window as she glared at the sneering sun demanding she get up at the butt crack of dawn. Huffing, she faced the other way and groaned as two peachy bum cheeks grinned at her from the other side of the bed—a random man sprawled on his front and grunting in his sleep.
In hindsight, perhaps going out-out on a Sunday night wasn’t the cleverest of ideas, but then again, these ideas were never her own. Her best friend, Samantha, was the type of lass who could be completely inebriated and then stroll into work the next day like a bouncing kitten on crack cocaine. Ava, however, would walk into work with a pair of large sunglasses obscuring half of her face, icily forbidding anyone from speaking to her, let alone even looking in her direction until late afternoon.
Today, she didn’t have sunnies big enough for the shitshow that was work.
Now, don’t get her wrong, she adored her job as a legal secretary and was often referred to as a freak of nature who sprung into the office with a genuinely sunny disposition. However, that was before her old man—and boss—suffered from a near-fatal stroke and had to take sick leave.
Tom Archer, a man well into his sixties and still working tooth and nail to keep his empire standing out from the rest, was the founding and managing partner at the prestigious law firm Archer and Brooks, a practice renowned for representing high-profile white-collar criminals and politicians. His corner office sat atop a skyscraper overlooking the River Thames with views of the London Eye and parliament—the location only adding to the esteemed reputation of his company.
The sudden decline in his health took everyone by surprise considering he lived an active lifestyle and enjoyed many country pursuits such as clay pigeon shooting, horse riding, and water polo. However, his favourite thing to do after a gruelling day at the office was spending time with his three beloved daughters: Suzannah, Heather, and Ava, his eldest.
Thanks to her father, it was safe to say that at the age of twenty-seven, Ava was doing well for herself. She had everything a woman could possibly ever desire: a “quaint” apartment down on Mayfair, a bustling social life, impeccable health nurtured through private care, and a job working for her old man that was easier than breathing. However, all of that was about to change now that Nathaniel Brooks was standing in for her father for the next month.
Ava’s morning started out like any other: sneaking out of her own bed with a note on her pillow for the lucky guy she hooked up with, a quick run to blow off the cobwebs, yoga to cleanse the soul, and her one-and-only hangover cure—a bowl of Coco Pops cereal. After that, she spent the best part of an hour getting ready since today was a big day, one where she had to stand out and make a lasting impression with her new so-called “boss”. A man who had taken it upon himself to email her at one in the morning on a Saturday with a list of demands before he even had the decency to introduce himself!
“Well, personally I think you look bloody lush in red…even if that dress is a little revealing for work,” Samantha said over a video call, still lying in bed with a cup of tea. Her short caramel locks stuck up in every direction as she rubbed her eyes and yawned. “But then again, you don’t have spaniel ears for tits and can get away with that.”
“But seriously, Sam, does it give the right first impression?” Ava sighed and ran her immaculately manicured fingers down over the body-contouring pencil dress.
“Oh, you mean the ‘back the fuck off, this is my daddy’s office and I’m not taking orders from a loud-mouthed American’ impression?” Sam trilled in thick Scottish and was clearly amused with herself as she hid her smirk behind her favourite llama-shaped novelty mug.
“That is the very look we’re going for, my lass!”
“Aye, well, if yer whole ensemble doesnae say it”—Sam waved her hand in front of the camera—“yer big gob will!”
Ava lowered her brows at her friend before tucking a golden curl behind her ear and glancing down at her watch. “I best go, I’ll see you in a couple of hours?”
“You sure will! I’ll bring coffee…and sedatives,” Sam quipped, causing Ava to giggle while she applied a scandalous shade of red to her lips. “Oh, and Ava?”
“Hm?”
“Try saving his little nut-roasting for when I’m in the office, will ya?”
Ava cherished London city centre first thing in the morning and upon sunset. She loved her morning walk to the office where she’d gaze in awe at the autumn sun’s smile tickling the wispy white clouds, its light glittering off of the monoliths of glass like candle flames licking up the sides of buildings and turning the sky into a Prosecco and gin candy floss cocktail.
She wasn’t originally from London, an Oxford girl at heart, but she knew these streets like the veins upon the back of her hand, and on days where it rained, she would often be the one telling her chauffeur which shortcuts to take through her beloved city.
Ava’s stilett
os clicked against the concrete as she ran into the middle of a bustling road jam-packed with black cabs and transit vans. Horns tooted around her as she dipped between the gridlock traffic, peering up towards her glass palace. Seventy storeys high towered the Inchyra Business Hub, a building that upon the sixty-sixth to the seventieth floors homed Archer and Brooks.
“Good morning, Ms. Archer!” The cheerful security officer greeted Ava as she stepped through the metal detectors and into the ostentatious atrium.
“Good morning, Mike,” Ava said, slightly bemused as she thanked him for darting to call the elevator for her.
“I do hope your father is keeping well?”
“His recovery is coming on nicely,” Ava replied with a well-practiced smile, peering up at the elevator as it counted down from the twentieth floor.
“That’s good to hear… So, Ava, I mean, Ms. Archer,” Mike corrected himself, straightening his posture and clearing his throat, “I was wondering if you would like to go—” The chime from the elevator doors interrupted him as Ava stepped inside and looked back at Mike with her eyebrows raised expectantly. “To go…get your badge updated! That picture is several years old now.” He pointed to the fob hanging from her coat, his cheeks matching the shade of her outfit.
“Perhaps later.”
The elevator doors pinged closed, shutting down another of the security man’s attempts at asking her out on a date. As she ascended, the elevator stopped at the fortieth floor to collect several people. Sighing, she scooted to the far corner of the metal box as white collars piled in, most of which were carrying their bitter-smelling caffeine fix from the coffee shop on that floor. She stood there feeling like a ruby in a rough of coal cinders, her red coat standing out against the black suits.
“Ava!” A tall auburn-haired man with emeralds for eyes squeezed himself through the suited sardines and stood next to her. “Good weekend?”
“Hello, Peter.” Ava’s eyes smiled at his handsome face despite her lips remaining in a flat line. “As good as it could be, I suppose.”
“Ah, I see…nervous to meet the new boss as well, Ms. Archer?” he teased as his elbow playfully jabbed at her side.
“I wouldn’t say nervous,” she scoffed and stood herself a half-inch taller by straightening her spine. “Slightly peeved at the whole inconvenience of it all but certainly not nervous.”
“Yeah, a lot of the chaps in the office aren’t looking forward to it. They heard this guy is a bit of a ball-buster,” Peter explained as he ran a hand through his coppery mop.
“Hah!” Ava blurted and couldn’t help but roll her eyes at him. “I’m sure the boys will be just fine. Everyone knows that the Yankees are all talk and no action.” She smirked as the elevator finally stopped at their floor and the crowd vacated into the foyer of the busy department.
“I don’t know about this one, Ava…chap’s got a killer rep over in the States,” he remarked with a sexy wink before leaning in to her, his breath tickling her ear as he whispered, “Best watch yourself, ol’ girl.”
Ava chuffed through her nose as Peter walked off in front, her ocean eyes dropping to his bottom adorned in grey tweed work slacks. She did enjoy his arse—especially when it was laid bare across her bed sheets every Friday night.
After greeting people good morning, she stood behind her tidy desk, shrugged out of her coat, and hung it up behind her before noticing the silhouette through the venetian blinds in the office next to her—her father’s office, which was currently being invaded by America.
She pursed her lips together, already feeling irked at this man’s presence as her long nails drummed on the table, deliberating on if she should introduce herself—after all, that would be the polite and adult thing to do. However, after this man decided to email her a list of demands for Monday morning and his “code of conduct” that he expected from all his personnel, she wasn’t feeling like showing him any of her British hospitality. So instead of a warm welcome, she sat down at her desk and started up her computer. While she waited, she idly inspected the ends of her long curls just as an abrupt bang on her desk sent a shock wave through her body and she jolted upright in her seat.
“Fuck me!” Ava squealed, her skeleton trying to jump out of her skin as her eyes landed on two large veiny hands at the edge of her desk, the knuckles of which were pressing down on the light wood to support their weight. With her heart in her throat, she dragged her eyes up the arm of a well-tailored, black pinstriped suit jacket and over the broadness of assertive shoulders before finally landing upon restless pools of chocolate and honey.
“Ms. Archer, I presume?”
Two
Nathaniel Brooks was jet-lagged when he woke up at the crack of dawn in his executive suite to disable the shrill noise of his alarm.
A gruff sigh left his lips as his fingers rubbed at the dark stubble of his beard, where thin wisps of hair peppered up the sides of his defined cheekbones into his hairline and cut along the sharp angles of his square jaw. He dragged his hands down over his face with a tired sigh as he whipped back the hotel bed sheets and made his way to a hot shower.
Being in Europe was the last thing he wanted right now when things back in the States were going swimmingly; his slice of the company was booming and damn if he wasn’t reaping the financial rewards of that. Having money meant he could do anything he wanted and go anywhere he wanted. From a young age, his life had been laid out for him, paving the way to his success, and at the age of thirty-five, he was settled with all the boxes ticked: wealth and good health, something that manifested itself in his appearance.
Nate knew himself to be every woman’s darkest fantasy; he was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, standing just above six foot and always dressed like a gentleman. A college football player, he still maintained his athletic build, something that did well to intimidate not only the women in his life but the fellas too.
Before reaching his thirties, he had already made a fortune in the legal profession. Smart, confident, and highly attractive? Yeah, he earned great respect before the judges and members of the bar alike.
However, life threw him a curveball when his business partner, Thomas Archer, took ill and Nate was summoned to London to manage Tom’s firm.
It’s just one month, he had told himself over a thousand times on the tiresome seven-hour flight from New York. I just have to keep Tom’s side above water, keep my side ticking over, and then I can head back home for Labour Day weekend—no biggie.
The vibrations rumbling across the hotel desk in front of him tore his attention from his thoughts as he placed his phone to his ear. “Mr. Brooks, this is a courtesy call to let you know your driver is five minutes away.” A polite-sounding woman spoke on speakerphone as Nate straightened his chrome-grey tie beneath his sharp white collar.
“Thank you,” Nate replied, his baritone voice the type that demanded everyone’s undivided attention. However, his tone was still rich and silken, like hot chocolate on a cold autumnal morning. He always spoke as though he had the entire world at his disposal, his experience and confidence seeping through every word.
He ended the call whether the woman had more to say or not, his attention upon his reflection as he shrugged his heavy shoulders into his black suit jacket and fastened the first couple of buttons. He looked as he did every day for work: refined and hard-edged, like that of his Bentley back home. The comb ran one last time through his thick dark hair, sweeping it up away from his forehead so it would sit neater into the faded shaven cut around his ears and down the back of his head.
A quick check of his wristwatch and he was off, suitcase in hand, with a hankering for a strong black coffee to subdue his jet lag.
He would have been on time this morning if one, the traffic hadn’t been abysmal, and two, he had gotten off of the elevator on the correct damn floor. Now he was waiting for the elevator alongside several other men who were talking about some soccer match that was on the television the night before. He stood at the
back watching them squabble like little boys, his thick brows knitting together and angling down into the bridge of his nose as he observed their interactions.
“So did ye hook up again with daddy’s little princess at the weekend?” one Englishman had asked another as they stood next to Nate.
“Nah, mate. Ava’s still milking the whole ‘caring for her old man’ thing,” the redheaded man responded, causing Nate’s hazel eyes to scroll down to his right.
The same Ava who was meant to be assisting me through this change of management?
“That’s balls, innit? What are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” Red boasted with a wink at his friend and a slimy smirk on his face that made Nate want to take his handkerchief and offer him it for his mouth. “She’ll be back—if she knows what’s good for her.”
The elevator chimed and Nate’s interest in the matter dissolved as the sea of suits moved forward and crowded into the silver death box from the fortieth floor. He fucking hated elevators but to hell with climbing a hundred flights of stairs. If there was one thing other than heights that Nate despised, it was confined spaces.
He was the last one into the elevator, standing rigid with men pressing against his suit from every direction and making him take a mental note to get his suit laundered.