Harlequin dare june 2021.., p.49
Harlequin Dare June 2021 Box Set, page 49
Unless you count the board, of course, and they can take—
‘Olivia!’
I stumble and curse, one foot landing squarely in a puddle, sending mucky water right up my legs. Dammit!
I don’t want to look behind me. In fact I don’t seem able to do much under the influence of my name being called in that gravel-like tone.
I can hear his hurried footfall on the pavement, catching me up, and I close my eyes, take a breath.
Valentine Boretti isn’t running away now. He’s chasing me down.
Could this day get any worse?
CHAPTER FIVE
Valentine
‘I’M SORRY, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
Her ponytail sashays down her back as she shakes her head to the heavens and gives a high-pitched laugh. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
She lifts one leg to eye her splashed calf and assess the damage, and I force my eyes up to the tip of her umbrella. This woman and her extremities do things to me that I need to have under control.
‘You could have fooled me.’
It comes out under her breath, but I hear it, every grumbled syllable. And I know she’s not referring to the puddle incident; she’s referring to the whole damn lot. Today, four weeks ago. Any doubt that she remembers me departs with the fresh weight in my gut.
‘Look, can we talk?’
She’s busy eyeing her other calf now and I don’t want to look at her angled leg with the strips of red that start at her ankle and work their way down her foot, the daring colour and height of the stiletto heel sparking a fire that contends with the heavy guilt.
‘Talk?’
Her prompt comes out sharp and I realise her eyes are on me now, and I’m... I’m staring. Shit. I clear my throat, snap my eyes up to scan the street in search of shelter. The rain already has my suit turning navy, my hair starting to drip.
‘Yes,’ I say, squinting against the rain as I look back at her. ‘Please.’
‘I told you, talk to my PA and we can arrange—’
‘No.’ I frown as I cut her off. ‘I want to talk off the clock, away from the office.’
She eyes me as though seeing me for the first time. ‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘You realise you’re getting soaked?’
‘Am I?’
‘Your locks aren’t going to look quite so perky if you stay out here much longer.’
I feel the oddest impulse to laugh. ‘Like your legs?’
She purses her lips, her eyes narrowing. Clearly a tease too far...
‘Are you trying to wind me up more?’
‘No.’ I blow out a breath. ‘I’m trying to fix things so that we can have a positive start to our working relationship.’
The high-pitched laugh returns, her brows arching over her eyes that sparkle and blaze and bring back that crazy fire deep within.
‘A positive start?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have to be joking!’
The wind picks up, whipping the rain into my face, and I duck beneath her umbrella, my only thought to escape it. Big mistake.
She scurries back, losing her footing on those silly, impractical heels—Now you say silly, but what you really mean is...
‘Careful!’ I clutch her elbow to steady her and quit the inner spiel that really isn’t helping.
‘Don’t you...’ She snatches her arm back, glares up at me. ‘A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?’
She eyes the umbrella now shielding us both and I sense she’s fighting the urge to move away fully and take it with her. ‘Why would I share my umbrella with a man...a man...?’
‘Olivia!’ I blurt out, my exasperation getting the better of me. ‘Will you stop behaving like a child and just listen to—?’
‘I’m behaving like a child?’ Her eyes widen into mine. ‘Me?’
Her laugh is even more manic. ‘You just appeared in my boardroom, summoned by the board of my company, to effectively put me in my place, and still have the gall to tell me to stop behaving like a child when that’s exactly how I’m being treated.’
I’m listening to her rant, I am, but seriously, the way her skin flushes and her lips move, that luscious red lipstick marrying so well with the flush to her cheeks and the over-bright blue gaze...it’s hard, real hard, to focus on responding.
Not in a way that would improve matters, at any rate.
I take a deep breath, eye the passers-by that I sense are starting to hover at our little scene and give her a grim nod.
‘I know we met under unusual circumstances...’
I watch her cheeks colour even further; her lashes flicker and her mouth opens as though she would say something but nothing comes out, other than the smallest of squeaks, and the foolish urge to kiss her intensifies.
I try and breathe through it, watch as a lock of her blonde hair makes a bid for freedom across her cheek and feel my fingers itch with the need to brush it behind her ear...
‘It’s funny you mention those circumstances—’ she pierces my reverie with a scowl ‘—because I find it a huge coincidence that you were also in the club that night. And when I say huge, I mean it was no coincidence at all. Was it?’
Swallow. ‘No.’
She startles, flustered. She clearly expected me to lie or to delay the truth at least.
‘I went to see if the rumours about you were real.’
‘The rumours?’
I feel the space around us closing in, too many people, too many ears. I don’t want to air my would-be client’s dirty laundry in a bustling city street.
‘Can we do this somewhere private?’
‘What?’ She fists her free hand on her hip. ‘So I can give you another show?’
I admire her strength, her candour, but it really doesn’t help us get where we need to be—on the same page, starting afresh.
And I really don’t need the very vivid reminder of the last show she put on for me either.
‘You know that’s not what I mean. I just want to clear the air where we can’t be overheard and...apologise.’
She cocks her head to the side, her eyes narrowing. ‘You’re going to apologise?’
‘Is that so hard to believe?’
Nothing. No response, just a cool stare.
‘Look, there’s a bar not far from here...’ I rake my fingers through my hair as her brows twitch at the suggestion. ‘If you’ll just give me the opportunity to apologise and explain, hopefully we can put this behind us.’
‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’
She looks past me now, chewing the inside of her cheek if I’m not mistaken, and I wait. And wait.
The rain is easing, her expression not so much.
‘No, not the pub.’ Her eyes flit to mine. ‘My place is around the corner; we can take this there.’
‘Your place?’ I don’t want to come across as surprised as I feel, but hell, it’s obvious. ‘I’m not sure... I don’t think...’
Now her eyes return and stay, their depths sparkling with what looks very much like amusement. ‘Scared I’m going to eat you alive, Valentine?’
She does a little claw action with her free hand, sound effects to boot. Fuck. I loosen my tie.
‘Jesus, don’t worry.’ She outright laughs now. ‘You’re far too young for me...and, if I’m honest, I’ve a feeling I’d break you.’
I swallow and wish I’d forgone the tie altogether this morning. This really isn’t going the way I want it to. Not even close. Just like the night at DareDevils, she almost has me on the run again.
‘Look, Valentine.’ Her sharp prompt has my pulse jumping. ‘Do you want to talk about this or not?’
‘Yes.’ It’s abrupt, to the point. That’s all I want to do. Talk about it, put it behind us. No more innuendo, suggestion, flirtation or whatever the hell this is.
‘Then we do it in the privacy of my own home.’
She starts to move but I’m rooted. A private booth in a pub is still a public place; it would be easy to keep a lid on...on this. It would be safe, secure, known.
But her home...?
Olivia
I tell myself I don’t care if he follows.
I tell myself it’s probably better if he doesn’t. I’m teetering on the edge of some emotional blowout and I’m not sure I want him witnessing it. No matter the role he’s played in the way I feel.
I’m too fragile. It would be better to leave it a day or two, give myself time to think through the board’s request to effectively ‘play nice’ with him and then face off our encounter four weeks ago.
My stomach rolls as I once again replay all he bore witness to during our accidental meet-up. Only it was no accident... He was there to spy on me.
My chest tightens, the bloom of anger threatening to set my skin ablaze all over again, and I grit my teeth, keep on walking. At least the anger beats the feeling of humiliation though.
I don’t turn around and he doesn’t attempt to walk in step with me and seek shelter under the umbrella again.
Good. Let him get soaked. It’s no more than he deserves.
I inwardly cringe at my petty behaviour. But is it petty? When all’s said and done, don’t I have a right to feel and act like this?
I lead the way in silence, hoping I can get a grip on my emotions before we reach my home, but I’m no calmer, no more in control as I push open the gate to my small front garden. I physically have to stop myself from letting it swing back on him, his taunt, ‘Will you stop behaving like a child...?’ fresh in my ears.
‘Thank you.’
I don’t respond as I walk down the path, leaving him to close the gate. I’m too busy telling myself this is a bad idea. But it beats doing it in the office or the pub or any other public place.
I pull my keys from my bag, surprised at how steady my fingers are, and unlock the front door. I step inside and turn to shake the umbrella out, keeping my eyes fixed on it and not his approaching form.
‘It’s a nice garden you have here.’
I don’t respond, just thrust the umbrella into the tall pewter vase beside the door and fight the ridiculous urge to laugh. Small talk? Really?
I keep my mouth clamped shut, untie my coat, which is a flourish of colour in the otherwise stark hallway, and hang it on the concrete coat stand Nathan paid an exorbitant amount for a few years back.
Valentine steps in and I shift away, tossing my bag on the concrete console table created by the same artist as the coat stand and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above. My heart jumps. I look alive, vibrant, my eyes glittering, my skin pink... I’m as incongruous as my coat. I falter a little, shake off the shock and keep moving, straight for the gleaming white kitchen and the wine cooler. I pull out a bottle, not caring which.
‘Can I get you one?’ I take a glass out of the cupboard and let my eyes drift to him as he walks in behind me. He looks awkward, young, so out of place. His golden skin, brilliant blue eyes and cobalt suit, all colour against the pale backdrop, and I have the intense desire to jump his bones on my pristine centre island.
I’m losing my mind, quite clearly.
I lift my brows to prompt an answer and catch the way he eyes the bottle in my hand. ‘What—too early for you?’
I check the wrought-iron clock that Nathan insisted we purchase even though it dominates the pillar that separates the kitchen from the dining space and the hard-landscaped garden beyond and take in the time. It’s long past noon, long past acceptable drinking time.
‘I’m good, thank you.’
‘Suit yourself.’
I pour a large glass, throw back a gulp and stare out at the garden and the rain creating ripples in the long, narrow pool that runs down its middle. I must have forgotten to put the cover across after this morning’s swim. But now I appreciate it, the sight of the rain causing a dance of vanishing circles that mirror the uneasy ripples inside.
I fear what he has to say, but I know I have to listen. That for the good of my company, the charity, I have to.
I flick him a look. He’s unmoving and soaked through; the hair that was so groomed in the boardroom has taken on a foppish edge, the shoulders of his blue suit dark where the rain has seeped in. It makes him appear less...less perfect, less in control.
More young. More vulnerable. More palatable...
I throw back more wine.
That’s palatable! Not a man half your age. A young, rain-abused and wickedly handsome PR guru sent to whip you into bloody shape!
A cocktail of anger and guilt fizzes in my veins. But it’s the guilt that’s winning out. Guilt that I desire him. Guilt that he’s in my marital home at my invitation. Guilt at his drowned rat state. Guilt that I’m drinking when he’s not. Guilt that I haven’t offered him an alternative drink when the well-trained hostess in me says that I should. Hell, even Nathan would turn in his grave.
Nathan. Nathan. Nathan.
Why do I still feel like he’s in the room with me, judging me, advising me?
More wine. Another breath. And why the hell isn’t Valentine speaking...?
‘You want to get started?’ I bite out. ‘I assume you’re a busy man and, believe me, there are plenty of things I’d rather be doing.’
Things I’d rather be doing...like him.
Jesus.
Why can’t I control this—my own mind, my own urges?
I’ve been set free. I should be able to live how I want. Instead, I can’t even get a handle on my emotions. They’ve never been further out of my control. And this desire to lose myself in something crazy, something wild and daring and all-consuming, it’s getting worse. Because Valentine...he represents all those juicy things.
I force myself to face him. The sooner we get this done, the sooner he leaves without me succumbing to the other ideas coming alive, ideas which start with me defiling him right here, right now.
‘Well?’ I prompt and he starts, waking up from some stupor that has me keen to work out where his head has been. Was it keeping mine company in the gutter? The thought tickles me, teasing at my lips, which aren’t so keen to form a straight line any more.
‘Okay.’ He rakes a hand through his wet hair, rubs his other down his face before shoving both hands deep inside his trouser pockets. I don’t want to notice how the move encourages his jacket to open up, his unveiled shirt to cling to his obviously trim torso, or the way he bites down on his lip as he contemplates what to say...
And I shouldn’t want him, not now. Not now I know who he is and in the cold light of day can see just how young he is.
So young, so fit, so virile... My mouth dries against the Chardonnay as my imagination runs wild, fending off my better judgement, which seems to intervene less and less these days.
‘Firstly, I am sorry.’ The sincerity in his tone draws my eyes to his and I can see it. In the intensity of his gaze, the way his brows furrow and his eyes widen. ‘The night we met, my intention was to see it for myself, that the rumour wasn’t merely malicious gossip aimed to discredit you.’
I scoff into my glass as I raise it to my lips. ‘You make it sound like I have a horde of enemies waiting in the wings to take me down. I’m not a celebrity, royalty, a politician, anyone of consequence—what does it matter what I do?’
‘The board believes it matters and they’re right. As for the charity, it doesn’t have a new face to replace you. You’ve stood down, but people still regard you as the spokesperson, the front.’
I’m quiet. I don’t want to go back to the way I was, but I also don’t want the charity to suffer either.
‘And you have to realise that you’re in the public eye. You as an individual. You’re an extremely successful businesswoman; lecturers talk about you, young women look up to you, they study you, they want to emulate you.’
Another scoff. I don’t want to listen. I don’t want to be that person. Not any more. I don’t want young women to follow my path, to sacrifice everything like I did and for what—to be forty-five and alone, lost, soulless?
But how can I explain that to him? We’re standing in my home, worth a fortune in itself. Not to mention the other properties I have all over the world. I have wealth. I have everything. And I’m quoting the tabloids now. Just last week an article used my possessions as a way to balance the loss of my husband: Hey, it’s okay. Yes, she lost her husband, her sweetheart for over two decades, but look at all she has accumulated in that time.
They don’t even know the half of it. No one does. No one knows what our relationship was like behind closed doors. Except maybe Fee. And though I disagree with her to an extent, because I loved Nathan, he was a good man, he had a good heart, even if he didn’t always show it, even if he did control almost everything, even if he was more like my father than I ever could have realised...
I let him take over, I altered myself to please him and played my part, losing sight of myself in our marriage, coming out of it not knowing my own mind, how to live. Truly live.
And wealth... What’s wealth when you have no one to share it with?
My skin prickles, goosebumps spreading top to toe as the chill inside blooms. I fold my arms across my middle, take a breath and focus on what he came here to discuss, feeling decidedly more comfortable with that side of the conversation. Because, truth is, I want to know what he was thinking, I want to know why he ventured up those stairs and then ran.
‘Rewind to a month ago...’ I force myself to meet his gaze and ignore the nervous fluttering in my chest. Hell, I can be as confident as they come but the problem is, he does something to me, he sets me on edge, he makes me feel nervous, he makes me feel...like a lust-struck teenager again.
