The Right Side of Mr Wrong

by Jane Linfoot

  * * *

  ‘You still here? I bought you some sweets by the way.’

  He thumped a bulging bag down on the desk. Not that she needed them.

  Since he’d left Shea this morning Brando had done three hours of vigorous running, then wasted a lot of time in town. He had no idea how anyone could have the patience to spend that much time ferreting in a cupboard, even if it was a huge one.

  ‘I’m almost done here, until the new files and boxes arrive, that is. And thanks for the sweets by the way. I’ve gone through loads today. I’m already out of sour worms. As for the cupboard, it feels a bit strange just putting everything back without sorting it. You do know the stuff in here is from ages ago don’t you?’ She stood back, and, avoiding his eyes meticulously, surveyed the impeccably neat shelves instead, a satisfied smile playing around her lips.

  He stood behind her. Allowed himself one look at the way her pencil skirt skimmed the curves of her bottom. As his blood rushed to one very pre-determined destination, he knew he’d been right to leave her alone, get the hell out of here this morning. There was no way, after last night, he could have watched her for a whole day without devouring her.

  ‘To be honest I don’t know what’s in there, and I don’t really give a damn!’ He spoke without thinking, saw her face fall as the words came out, and immediately started backtracking. ‘I mean it’s all old stuff, probably mostly forgotten, and it’s great that it’s all in order now. Brilliant in fact. Did you come across anything exciting?’

  Serious grovelling.

  When the hell did he do serious grovelling? Why the hell did he feel the need to do it now?

  ‘Professionally, I wouldn’t usually comment, but as you’ve mentioned it … ’

  The only answer he’d expected to hear was ‘no.’ She was hesitating now, obviously waiting for his permission to go on.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s a load of band stuff in there.’

  Jeez. What the … ? Everything to do with the band was supposed to be locked away in the ballroom. Damnation. He’d never have let her in the cupboard if he’d known.

  ‘A band called Take a Bullet? I didn’t know you were in a band.’ She held up a creased flyer, and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  He took a moment to reel, to get his excuses together. He needed to work out how to move the conversation on and take the thundering kick in the gut of seeing Nick, alive, a belligerent grin on his face, hand slung casually over his own shoulder.

  ‘The band was a long time ago.’ He shrugged, diffidently. ‘Why would you know about the band, when the sum total of what you know about me is that my name is Brando, and my least favourite place is Edgerton Hall!’

  Except you know how it feels to sit on me and come.

  He forced that thought as far out of his head as he could, in the interests of keeping the maximum brain power to steer her away from the subject of the band, but he could see she was going to press on.

  ‘I was probably only about nine at the time, but you guys must have been big, judging by the awards, and I love the album covers, I bet there’s a load of footage on YouTube … ’

  His best bet was to appear open, give her something more to get her teeth into.

  ‘Take a Bullet are ancient history. YouTube is the only place you’ll find them now. Yes, we made a load of money, and I took mine and moved on to business. I still do production occasionally, sometimes promotion or festivals, but these days I deal in risk investment. Big risk means big money. Risk is where I get my buzz, and the billions that come along with it are simply a happy side effect.’

  Here’s hoping that the information dump would distract her.

  ‘Who’d have thought … ’ She looked up pensively. ‘Talking of buzz, do you have any more storage that needs assessing?’

  Result. A natural subject change. Heat off. Easy as. And who, except this girl would get from business-buzz to storage in one crazy leap?

  But he was hitting a dead end on this one too.

  ‘Sad to say, you just blitzed my only personal cupboard. The rest are all Mrs McCaul’s responsibility, so I’ll have to talk to her on that.’

  ‘Okay, thanks – it’s just I’m bad at sitting round with nothing to do.’ She shot him a pleading smile, which tugged his brain onto more pressing matters.

  ‘I can call on you this evening for the four hours fifty five you owe me. That’ll give you something to do!’

  Float the idea, see where it goes.

  If her thunderous eyebrows were anything to go by …

  ‘I’d thought I’d made it perfectly clear earlier, I’m not going to have sex with you again!’

  Her shrill protest was saying one thing but her nipples, pushing taut against the cotton of her regulation office shirt told a very different story. Funny how he couldn’t remember her saying anything of the sort.

  And when she looked as fiery as she did now, it took every inch of his willpower not to carry her off to bed there and then.

  ‘Who said anything about having sex?’

  He flashed her a wicked grin, and watched her cheeks turn scarlet. ‘I was going to suggest taking you out for dinner, but if you’ve got a better idea … ’

  ‘No, dinner will be fine.’ She jumped in with her reply. ‘Thank you, dinner sounds good.’

  The woman’s ability to make lightning recoveries was awesome.

  ‘We’ll go somewhere warm. And I promise to park impeccably.’ He was going all out to sound practical and reassuring. ‘You can wear your little black dress.’

  Your lace stockings.

  But all he could think of was taking them off.

  * * *

  ‘I brought the most practical car I could find – hope it passes the Shea-test.’

  ‘The leather seats smell nice.’ Shea smiled as she ran her hand over the smooth red and white upholstery. ‘And I like Minis.’

  ‘Good size parcel shelf, handles well on corners, low fuel consumption, I thought you’d approve. Though I have to ’fess up, it isn’t mine – I’ve borrowed it from Mrs McCaul.’

  Something should’ve told her a car this sensible couldn’t be Brando’s.

  ‘Who’d have thought Mrs McCaul would have chosen anything this racy?’ She raised her eyebrows in double surprise, first at the thought of a racy Mrs McCaul, then at the speed with which he took the next corner. ‘Though a sensible car doesn’t always mean a sensible driver.’

  He didn’t react to that jibe.

  ‘She didn’t exactly choose it. She’d always wanted a Mini, and I got it as a surprise sixtieth present for her, last year. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to buy the shopping version. It was just too boring.’ Brando sounded suddenly worried. ‘ Do you think she’d have preferred something less stripy?’

  His obvious concern made her smile, want to reassure him. ‘I’m sure she loves it. The chrome and the racing logos probably make her feel young.’

  ‘It’s their wedding anniversary next weekend, and they’re going to London to see Mamma Mia. I always like to make sure they get up to London for a show for their anniversary.’

  He almost sounded like he was talking about his parents. So much for Brando treating his staff badly, she’d obviously misread that situation completely.

  ‘Talking about mothers, your mum rang whilst you were in the shower. I assured her you hadn’t come to any harm since she phoned this morning, and told her she didn’t need to ring again until tomorrow.’

  ‘Brando!’

  ‘What?’ He sounded unrepentant. ‘She needs to give you more space; you’re not a child, she needs to back off and cut the cord!’

  ‘You didn’t tell her that?’

  He hesitated, ominously. ‘Perhaps not in those exact words … ’

  Which pretty much meant he had. Damn.

  ‘You don’t understand, if you knew the full picture, you’d know she’s only like that because … ’ Because of all the things she couldn’t tell him, and almost h
ad. Damn again. Near miss. ‘Because she’s concerned. And she cares.’

  He gave a loud grunt of disapproval, as he flung the car into the car park with a handbrake turn, then came to a screeching halt. She was about to lodge a protest, but stopped as she caught a side view of the deep dimples in his cheeks, illuminated in the yellow light from the pub, and her heart flipped into freefall and took her words clean away.

  He grinned across at her triumphantly. ‘I think you’ll find I’m parked in my marked bay!’

  I think you might find you’ve just run over my heart.

  Hands, resting oh-so-casually on the steering wheel.

  Strong wrists, beautiful in the half light.

  An OMG moment if ever there was one, for all the wrong reasons. When had she ever gone weak looking at someone’s wrists? It had to show she was in big trouble.

  She needed to slay her lust-dragon, and fast.

  * * *

  ‘I can only apologise for the decor.’ Brando screwed up his face in distaste, as he leaned back on his chair between courses, and surveyed the surroundings. ‘Rustic beams are yet another highly over-rated rural commodity that I hate.’

  Shea looked around at the polished stone floor and the slender chairs. As far as she could assess, the timbered building had been stripped back then furnished to give a contemporary, spare yet luxurious feel, which she liked very much. As she was beginning to discover, sometimes Brando was very hard to please.

  ‘So, it’s good we’re here for the food, not the decor. And the service couldn’t be better.’

  The tables were large enough for her to keep her distance, which was the best thing of all, because right now the last thing she needed was for Brando to be too close. If he was drop-dead gorgeous in his everyday denims, the casual jacket and chinos he was wearing this evening had cranked that up to off the scale irresistible. Just enough stubble to … She yanked her imagination to a halt, before she got onto the endless options of where on her body she’d like him to rub it. Whatever the temptation, resist was just what she had to do. She’d had her one-off, and once had to be enough. More was way off limits.

  ‘Anyway, now you’ve met my mum on the phone, and told me exactly where you think our problems lie, how about your family? I expect they’re perfect.’

  She knew, even as the words came out, that she could be moving onto dangerous ground. She’d been searching for a subject to take her mind off how much she was lusting after him, wanting to hit out, just a little bit, in retaliation for the way he made her feel so out of control. The way his lip curled into the bitterest of smiles made her wish she could take it back.

  ‘We don’t all have sweet, indulgent mothers, and doting, nuclear families. For most people, life just isn’t that hunkydory, whatever you think.’ The words he’d flung hit the table and splintered up at her.

  ‘I know that, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. And as you pointed out, families can be suffocating, especially when your mum phones three times a day or more.’

  She spoke quickly, tried a brief smile. Played the happy family card. She didn’t want to give him any cause to guess her background was less than idyllic.

  ‘Three calls or more? That’s rough.’ He rubbed a thumb over the stubble on his chin. ‘I can’t remember when I last spoke to my mother. We don’t have anything to say.’

  Oh my. She’d dragged them into this, now she needed to get them out.

  ‘That’s rough too. Just in a different way.’ She wasn’t pushing for more, but she could tell by the set of his chin that he wasn’t done.

  ‘My father left, then died, my mother remarried. I fought with my step-father, was sent away to boarding school and farmed out to friends in the holidays. End of story.’

  Or beginning of story, depending where you were sitting. He’d brushed it off, brazened it out. If it hadn’t been for a slight twitch in his left cheek and his desolate stare, she’d have believed him.

  ‘What about your sister?’ She’d asked before she remembered not to, but suddenly it didn’t seem to matter because he was answering without hesitation.

  ‘She was younger when my parents split up. My mother remarried quite quickly, but Bryony never had the problems I did with our stepfather. She pretty much had her own nuclear family, along with a couple of younger half-sisters. She landed in the happy camp.’

  ‘Awwww, Brando.’

  ‘That’s the thing. It isn’t really ‘awww Brando’ at all. Boarding school was the best thing that could have happened to me. I was thirteen, a stroppy adolescent, it had been hell at home, and school was great. I made amazing friends, we had the band, I made a load of money, then I got Edgerton. The independence and self-reliance I learned are what you need in life to succeed. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done on my own.’

  Looking across the table at him now, she wasn’t sure if she was looking at a hard-nosed businessman, or that stroppy thirteen year old. She knew hard times made strong men, but what about a life without love? She had a sudden urge to fling her arms around that vulnerable boy. Hug him better. If the table had been smaller, she’d have reached out and put her hand over his. As it was all she sent him was a sympathetic shrug. ‘You’ve done brilliantly, but it still makes me think awwwww a little bit.’

  His one raised eyebrow suggested he thought she’d lost her marbles.

  ‘What’s not to like?’ He snorted his dismissive snort. ‘All that’s missing are the phone calls.’

  The phone calls, and maybe a little bit more.

  So she’d been wrong to mark him down as an overgrown spoilt kid, but at least this went some way to explaining his issues. Issues which, she needed to remember, were nothing to do with her. She was here for house organising. Full stop.

  She pulled out her brightest, most professional smile, and searched wildly for something trivial to say.

  ‘What’s your favourite pudding then?’

  * * *

  Brando raised an eyebrow in the darkness as he threw the car round the penultimate bend, and realised he was smiling. On the journey back, he’d hardly got a word in edgeways, and she was showing no sign of letting up.

  ‘Choosing puddings has to be one of life’s most difficult jobs. Next time I’d definitely have the jam roly-poly. Or it might have to be the sticky toffee pudding. Even now I can’t decide, and it’s not even happening!’

  ‘So there’s going to be a next time?’

  That was a showstopper if ever there was one. She jolted into silence, and he was left feeling mean. But the jibe had been directed as much at himself as her. Okay, she’d been chatting about puddings non-stop for the last hour and forty minutes, but it had been washing over him like a gentle stream whilst he mulled over more important stuff. Like why he was comfortable listening to her giving detailed instructions for making an arctic roll. And why had he’d ended up talking about his family, when he never did. And how the hell he was going to get her into bed.

  ‘Maybe next time we’ll bring the limo … and the chauffeur.’

  Why had he just said that? When had he ever made promises he wasn’t going to keep?

  Looking across at her now he knew he’d been right to leave the chauffeur at home. If his hands hadn’t been on the wheel tonight, he’d never have kept them off her.

  ‘Fancy a moonlit walk?’

  He hadn’t meant to ask that either, but somehow now he could see the house approaching he didn’t want to get back, not this early, not yet.

  ‘With these shoes?’

  He’d already pulled the car off the drive.

  ‘We don’t need to go far.’ He’d grabbed his parka off the back seat, and was already out of the car opening her door, hauling her out, wrapping his coat around her.

  ‘It’s so clear, and the moon’s so bright.’ Her muffled words came from somewhere inside the hood of his coat.

  He grabbed her hand, and started to pull her across the grass with no clear idea where he was taking her. The truth was, his thoug
ht processes had been blurred all evening. Sitting opposite Shea in a skin tight dress with an achingly scooped neckline, he’d had a non-stop hard-on of the decade, which had left very little blood for brainwork.

  ‘Don’t worry about your shoes, I can get you some more.’ She was warm against him now, tugging on his arm unevenly. ‘Do you need me to carry you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly! You just need to walk a bit slower, then I can … ’

  ‘Overruled! Executive decision!’ He bent down, scooped her up, breathed in her heat and ran.

  She was kicking, squealing, laughing, squirming against him. ‘Brando, stop it, put me down! This so isn’t fair. Seriously, if you don’t put me down I’ll probably be sick … ’

  ‘Okay, you win.’ Breathless. When was he ever breathless? He could sprint for ten miles and not be breathless. Slowly, reluctantly, he dropped her feet, set her on the ground again, her bum cranking his erection off the scale as she bumped him accidentally on the way down. ‘Here, lean on this tree.’

  He took her shoulders in his hands and felt a shiver convulse through her body as he pushed her back against the wide trunk. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. She was too good to take down to his level, whatever she’d done to him yesterday. Thoughts of that had kept him rock-hard all day, but a niggling part of him suspected he should be getting his bad man sex-for-kicks elsewhere. Yesterday he’d had Shea pegged as a hard-nosed gold-digger he was hell-bent on taking down. But everything he’d seen since suggested she was a lot less tough than he’d thought. God knows what she was doing here.

  ‘Look over my shoulder, see if you can count the stars.’ Reaching past the fur trim of her hood, he tilted her chin, felt her breath, hot and uneven, on his wrist. It was as ragged as his own. He tried to resist the desire to grind his length against her pelvis.

  ‘So many stars … they remind me of a pavlova with sparklers I had on my ninth birthday.’

  He’d promised himself he’d let her dictate the pace, do the asking, if there was any to be done, as if that made it any more right, but the crazy way his body was burning right now meant that rational thought and self-control were heading out of the window.