by Juliet Lyons
“Are you ladies attending the office spring party this evening?”
I frown into the screen. I vaguely recall hearing something about a staff social at some fancy bar in Leicester Square.
“Not me,” Janice says. “Bob’s away, so I have to get home to let the dogs out.”
Dog owners and parents always have the best excuses. No one ever argues with canine care or kids. No one.
The door swings open again and one of the bosses who hired me, Joel Peters, waltzes into reception.
“Ah, O’Geary, there you are,” he says, adjusting shiny gold cuff links. “Ready?”
Leery O’Geary tears his gaze from me at last, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“We were just discussing the spring party this evening,” he says to Mr. Peters. “Janice can’t go because of her dogs. Mila, what was your excuse again?”
I look up to meet Mr. Peters’s eyes, going completely blank. “Er—”
Mr. Peters frowns. “It would be great if you could make it, Mila. I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of our social functions before.”
Drat. Think of an excuse. Fast.
“I’d love to,” I say, smiling, “but I’ve just, um, got a new kitten and I don’t want to leave him alone in the evenings.”
This stuff always works for pet owners. Always.
“Nonsense!” Mr. Peters says, deflating me like a balloon on a spike. “My wife breeds kittens from our Burmese, Shona. Just lock him in the kitchen with some water, food, and warm bedding. He’ll be quite all right for a few hours.” He grins, looking pleased that he’s just solved all my problems. “See you there.” He drops Janice a nod. “Sorry you can’t make it. But dogs come first, eh? Bye, ladies.”
I glower at their retreating backs as they exit through the revolving doors.
“A new kitten?” Janice asks. “Is that a euphemism for your boyfriend?”
“No, Janice,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “It’s not.”
* * *
Later, over dinner, Vincent asks why I’m so quiet.
We’re sitting at his kitchen island eating the carbonara he cooked for us and I’m fretting about the office party and how it will affect my job if I don’t show up. Will they even notice?
“Oh,” I say, pushing my pasta around the plate. “There are these work drinks tonight that my boss wants me to go to.”
“Do you want to go?” he asks.
I glance up to meet his gaze. In the fading sunlight from the windows, his eyes shimmer a glassy blue, tiny flecks of silver at the center flickering like stars. He is a vision—shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal golden planes of muscle, blond hair falling all over the place. For some peculiar reason, his hair never looks quite as immaculate as it did when I met him. Perhaps messy hair is catching.
“No,” I say, forking a pasta tube between my lips. “I’d much rather stay in and watch Dr. Quinn.”
Of all the slick, high-class drama I’ve shown Vincent these past few weeks, the only one he’s shown interest in is Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. “Now this,” he said, when Sully and Michaela were involved in a face-off between the prejudiced townsfolk and the Cheyenne Indians, “is entertaining.”
Men. Go figure.
“If you don’t want to go, what’s the problem?”
I sigh. “My boss thinks I’m going. I’ve not been out socially with them yet.”
“So we’ll go.”
I frown. “Won’t that be dangerous?”
“Not if I’m with you.”
I chuckle, putting on a deep Arnie voice. “Come with me if you want to live.”
He wags a tapered finger across the island. “Terminator? With the cyborgs, right?”
Slapping a hand to my chest, I feign a look of motherly pride. “He’s learning. He’s truly learning.”
Vincent flings the dish towel from his shoulder through the air in a perfect arc, where it lands on my head. “Yes, Yoda, I’m learning.”
I smile, tossing the cloth aside, resisting the urge to hold it over my nose and mouth and inhale his manly scent. The struggle is real.
“We’ll go then,” he says. “It’ll be good for you. Can’t be much fun being cooped up in here with me all the time.”
How wrong can he be? I think I’d happily live holed up in this apartment with him for the rest of my life if he allowed it.
“My colleague asked me today if you and I are enjoying a sadomasochistic relationship,” I blurt out.
He almost spits out his orange juice, a line furrowing his brow. “Jesus. Do you think it’s the suits?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s Janice’s perverted mind. Your suits are perfect.” I wrench my eyes away before he notices. “So I guess we’re going. There’ll be a free bar for your troubles.”
He chuckles. “Alcohol doesn’t really do a lot for me. But you go ahead. I’ll carry you home.”
The idea of being hoisted into his strong, capable arms sends fire soaring into my cheeks. “I might hold you to that.”
When I look up, he’s gazing at me intently, his eyes burning like blue flames. He opens his mouth to say something before closing it again. It happens a lot, I’ve noticed. As if there’s something he wants to say but is never sure how to word it.
He rakes a hand through his tousled blond hair instead, before reaching across for my plate. “Finished?”
I nod, pushing it toward him across the tiled countertop and enjoying a peek into the open neck of his shirt. I still fantasize about the night of the bad dream—catching a glimpse of those satiny smooth muscles rippling his chest. It’s getting harder and harder to fall asleep each night knowing there’s a god lying in bed next door.
“I’ll go get showered,” I say, sliding off the stool.
Cold showered.
* * *
When I return to the living room an hour later, wearing a simple black skater dress with tiny stars emblazoned across it, I almost suffer heart failure to find Vincent not wearing a suit. Apart from abs night—which doesn’t count, as he wasn’t dressed at all save for a pair of briefs, thanks be to God—I’ve never seen him wear anything but a suit. Truth be told, I was beginning to assume he didn’t actually own anything else. Yet here he is, dressed in dark-blue jeans that hug his lean legs like a second skin, and a thin navy sweater that accentuates every line of bulging muscle. The blue in the material picks up the light in his eyes, turning them the color of the sky after sunset.
I blink uncontrollably.
“No suit,” I squeak.
He glances down at his clothes, mussed blond locks falling in his eyes. My knees almost give out there and then.
“I’m trying for a less sadomasochistic look,” he teases.
“Hey, don’t knock sadomasochists. They know a thing or two about tailoring.”
He grins, eyes crinkling around the edges. Standing there, outlined by the amber glow from the windows, I struggle to remember ever seeing a man look so beautiful.
“You look lovely,” he says, waving a hand at my outfit and frowning deeply.
My cheeks instantly alight. I do the thing I always do when paid a compliment. Babble. “This is old,” I say, plucking at the material. “I don’t have many clothes because I had to leave so much behind and of course, most of my stuff is still in Finsbury Park. Did you hear anything about my flat, by the way?”
“It’s all locked up and secured,” he says, eyes still pinned to my dress. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Good.”
I stand, swinging my arms like an eleven-year-old waiting to be asked to dance at a school disco, until he jerks his head toward the front door. “Shall we?”
I reach down to snatch my clutch bag from the sofa, grateful to at last have something to do with my hands. “Let’s.”
* * *
The office party is held at Ruby Green’s, an imposing six-story building wedged on a corner of Leicester Square. I’ve been a couple of times before, so I know it well enough to lead Vincent from the loading-only parking spot around the corner where he parks the Porsche.
“This is your one vice, isn’t it?” I ask as he clicks the doors locked.
He grins. “The parking? Fines always seem to miraculously disappear when you’re a cop.”
I shake my head in mock disapproval. “What about the poor guy with the two hundred crates of bananas who can’t make his delivery on time because of some wanker with a Porsche? His words, not mine,” I add quickly.
Vincent laughs. “I have a job to do too: escorting Miss Mila Hart safely to a work party. The bananas will have to wait.”
“Smooth,” I say, as we cross the street into the hustle and bustle of Leicester Square.
The front of Ruby Green’s is a lot like a mausoleum, its tombstone-white facade lit up purple and green. Before we walk up the carpet to the entrance, Vincent hangs back. “Don’t feel you have to hang out with me when we get upstairs, Mila,” he says, hands thrust deep into his pockets. “I’m more than happy to fade into the background.”
I open my mouth to tell him not to be silly, that I don’t even like half the people I work with, but then it occurs to me: he’s probably sick of the sight of me and would relish a couple of hours without me glued to his side like a spare tire.
“Uh, okay. If you’re sure,” I mutter. Then, for some bizarre reason, I lightly punch his arm, as if we’re buddies heading out for a night on the prowl. “And feel free to chat up as many women as you like, because when the killer is caught and I move back home, I’m going to have to pretend we broke up. Lay as much groundwork as you can, partner.”
A look of confusion flits across his chiseled features, but before I can even begin to figure it out, it’s gone and he gives me a small salute. “Chat up lots of women. Got it.”
Inside, I’m pretty sure a part of me just died.
“Let’s go have some fun,” I say almost too brightly.
The party is taking place on the third level, the piano barroom. I have to hand it to corporate—it’s a pretty cool venue. The floor is polished marble, the walls paneled in lacquered dark wood. The man tinkling the keys of a grand piano at one end of the room adds to the 1920s vibe.
A waiter with a tray of champagne ambushes us immediately. “Drink?”
Vincent surprises me by snatching two from the silver platter.
“Well, what kind of future dumped boyfriend would I be if I didn’t drink too much?” he says, smirking and handing me a tall flute.
I take a sip. Usually, I drink the cheap stuff—carbonated paint stripper, as Laura calls it—so I’m surprised by the delicate tang of bubbles, smooth on my tongue. I hold it up to the light appraisingly. “This,” I say to Vincent, “is good poison.”
He grins, whipping another from a passing tray faster than I can blink. I don’t think the waiter sees it go either. “Here, have another.”
“You might live to regret this, Vincenzo,” I say, taking a gulp of bubbles, “when you’re carrying me to bed later.”
I freeze in horror, glass halfway to my lips. “M-My bed,” I stammer. “Alone, with you next door. Obviously.”
He ducks his head in agreement. “Obviously.”
I never thought I’d be so relieved to be landed on by one of the marketing girls, Layla, the dark-haired one with slanted cat’s eyes. The relief is short-lived, however, when she says, in a voice that may only be described as a purr, “Mila, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
I ache to say no, but my mouth has other ideas.
“Sure,” I say with a hint of smugness. “This is Vincent. My boyfriend. Vincent, this is Layla. She works in marketing.”
Layla smiles a sickly sweet grin. “What is it you do, Vincent?” she asks, tucking a tendril of inky black hair behind an ear and batting her eyelashes so rapidly I’m surprised she doesn’t get whiplash.
“I work in sales,” Vincent says smoothly. “I sell upmarket vehicles to London’s rich and famous.”
I stare up into his perfectly impassive, handsome face as the lies pour forth. Hard to believe this is the same man who blushes a violent shade of hot pink during Dr. Quinn and Sully’s chaste kissing scenes.
“Fascinating,” Layla says, head tilted to one side, as if he’s announced he sends farm animals into space. “Do you get to take them home?”
“Excuse me. I’m going to go say hi to Mr. Peters,” I interject, the words before I vomit in my Moet dangerously close to my lips.
They ignore me as I slip across the room. I know Vincent is acting, but it still cuts like a rusty knife.
“Hi, Mr. Peters,” I say when I reach my target.
“Mina!” he says jovially. “You made it.”
I let out a nervous chuckle. “Mila, actually.”
“Right. My apologies. How’s the cat?”
My eyes flicker across to where Vincent and Layla are deep in conversation. “Oh, you know…hard to keep tabs on.”
“Excellent,” he says. I can tell by the glazed look in his eyes that he’s not in the least bit interested in my fake feline problems—or me, for that matter.
He then employs the age-old trick of palming me off onto a huddle of people next to us. Why I came tonight when I could be at the apartment eating snacks with a blushing, blond hunk and watching middle of the road nineties drama is already beyond me.
Luckily, ten minutes into my small-talk torture, my lunch buddy Faith materializes at my side.
“Let’s hit the bar,” she says, brown eyes flashing as she steers me away by the elbow.
“Thank God you’re here,” I hiss as we cut through the sea of waiters and schmoozers. “All they talk about is work and money. It’s so boring.”
“What are you doing?” Faith demands when we reach the safety of the bar. “You left your hunk of a new boyfriend alone in the shark pit.” She spins me around to face the spot across the room where Vincent is now talking to not just one, but four of the marketing girls.
I shrug. “You know what they say, Faith. If you love someone, set them free. If they come back, it’s meant to be.”
Faith grips me by my shoulders. She isn’t normally this assertive. In fact, she’s one of the nicer people I’ve met since I started working for Wilkin Morris.
“You’re crazy.” She leans in closer. “When you showed up with him that day, you gave me hope karma is alive and well, that sometimes the nice single girl gets the hot guy. And now you’re on the brink of letting those rich, I don’t really need a job but I’ve got nothing better to do, Sloane Square upstarts take him away? Why would you do that?”
I’m sorely tempted to tell her the truth. That karma is as cold as ever in its grave. That the only reason I have a guy like Vincent escorting me to work parties is that he’s paid to do it. But staring down into her round, wide-eyed face, her brown cheeks flushing violently, I can’t find it in my heart to destroy the dream.
“He’s into whips,” I blurt out.
Faith’s expression turns from concerned to horrified in a millisecond. “I’ll fetch us some drinks.”
As it turns out, lying about being in a sadomasochistic relationship is surprisingly easy. Also, if I’m completely honest, the idea of being tied up by Vincent is far from harrowing. By the end of the conversation, I’m convinced I’d thoroughly enjoy it. Mind you, that probably has a lot to do with all the free cocktails I’m swigging.
“By submitting to his needs,” I say, staring wistfully into space, “I’m transported to this strange sexual plane of nirvana.”
Faith sighs. “Maybe I should give Tinder another go.”
I nod. “Just promise me you’ll avoid V-Date.”
“Why?”
I slide my empty glass onto the bar behind us. “I need the ladies’ room,” I say, ignoring the question. “I’ll be right back.”
The swell of people has grown considerably since we first arrived. As I weave a wobbly path to the bathroom, I crane my neck, trying to distinguish the broad-shouldered frame of Vincent from the other revelers, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
A dark clutch of fear seizes my heart. What if he’s outside somewhere, in a clinch with a marketing girl? I’ve drunk way too much alcohol to be able to hide my true feelings. If that happens, I will throw up. Pure and simple.
After visiting the ladies’ room, I look for him on the balcony. Outside, the sun has already slipped below the horizon, a glowing moon visible through silvery wisps of cloud. The busy street below has been thrust into shadow, and from up here, the chatter from the street is muted and dull. There is no one about, but I sink into a bistro chair anyway, trying to clear my muzzy head. I really shouldn’t have mixed all those drinks.
“I thought I saw you come out here,” a voice says behind me.
Even though I know it isn’t Vincent’s deep, soothing tones, I whip my head around expectantly, only to find Leery O’Geary loitering in the doorway with a half-empty pint of beer.
“If you’re looking for the bloke you came with, I think he’s still flirting with Layla near the piano,” he drawls.
There’s a slur to his voice that tells me he’s had a lot to drink. That and the way he’s swaying like a wheat stalk in a breeze.
I rise to my feet, ignoring both him and the wave of nausea sweeping over me at his words.
“Of course,” he continues, a smirk plastered across his smarmy face, “if he does hook up with Layla—which looks likely, by the way—I’d be more than happy to escort you home.”
“Paul,” I say, “even if he’s hooking up with Kim Kardashian in there, I still wouldn’t want anything to do with you.”
He sways again, a spark of anger igniting within his dark-gray eyes. “What makes you think I’d want to fuck the likes of you anyway?” he sneers, beer slopping onto the deck as he steps closer.
What happens next is a bit of a blur. I move to leave, but he blocks my path, forcing me backward until the backs of my knees hit the chair. One of his hands seems to move in slow motion toward me. It’s like that day in the kitchen all over again. Then the hand is gone, and Leery with it, and Vincent is standing in his place, staring down at me with the same gentlemanly concern as that night in the alleyway. He grips me gently by the shoulders. In my tipsy state, I ponder if he’s about to kiss me.
