by Emily Bishop
“What?” My mind races. “Yeah, you’ve paid for stuff for me, but it didn’t come out in the millions. Maybe tens of thousands. Maybe reaching a hundred, max. You know how much forty percent is? That’s like 400 million pounds.”
“I know.”
“I was planning to give you a cut anyway. But not that much. I have plans for the rest of the money.” I can’t wait to tell Isabella about them.
Eddie gives me a sideways look. “Plans? You can only buy so many yachts and cars and watches. The rest of it will be rotting in the bank. You might as well give it to me, and I can flip it in FX trades.”
I hate this conversation. “I’ll give you ten percent.” That’s fair. “One hundred mil. Not too shabby, eh?” I dig him in the ribs.
“All right, rich boy,” he replies. But his eyes don’t match his smile, and his dig back in my ribs is way too sharp.
I open my shoulders and swagger down the street toward the pub. “Not many people can say their friend put one hundred mil in the bank for them. But not everyone’s friends with Grayson Fairfax II.”
“Don’t you mean Grayson Fairfax the Second, Duke of Albany?” Eddie says with a grin. I can’t tell if we’re back to being fully good or not. There’s this weird vibe hanging in the air, and I don’t know how to get rid of it.
“Sounds disgusting, doesn’t it?” I laugh. “Those old titles don’t mean jack shit anyway. The only thing it means is that more fortune and status grabbers will cling onto my coat tails.”
“There’ll be plenty of those,” Eddie says darkly. “Just make sure you know who your real friends are.”
We reach the pub, and I slap him on the back before we go inside. “Well, you’ll always be my wingman, Eddie.”
He slaps me back. “Players forever.”
Chapter 18
Isabella
DAY 12
Natalie’s so excited for me. I hang up the phone with a sigh. She keeps telling me I should go for it, have another night of sweet, hot sex with Gray. Allow him to sweep me off my feet. I told her she doesn’t know what he’s like. Sure, he’s not as arrogant or mindless as he makes himself out to be. But he’s not exactly my human-rights lawyer family man, is he? It doesn’t matter what I feel. It doesn’t matter that sometimes I imagine his big cock inside me. It doesn’t matter that sometimes I want to take his hand when we’re walking. None of that matters. It won’t work, and that’s the end of it.
There’s a knock on the door. “Yes?”
Gray opens it and comes striding on through. “Morning.”
“Hi.” I get up and straighten my skirt.
Is he going to push me back on the bed, push my legs apart, pull my panties down, and slide into me? It flashes through my mind in an instant. My mind resists. My pussy says, yes, please.
But he sits on the elegant antique chair in the corner of the room and leans his forearms on his knees. He takes up so much space wherever he is, even though he’s a fairly slim man. He owns every room he walks into.
“Finky’s coming tomorrow,” he says. “I’m going to coach you on what to say. How to be.”
“I think I can handle that myself.”
He grins. “And I’m the arrogant one? Listen, you don’t know what he’s looking for. You don’t know the guy. You don’t know these English aristocratic circles.” He sneers, like he doesn’t like them much. “He’s been a family friend for years, and I was born a duke’s heir. So, on this one, I’m the expert, all right?” He winks at me. “I know you love your books. But this one you can’t study. You need… lived experience.” He’s mocking me, but it feels like intimate teasing. I even feel a little turned on. What the hell is wrong with me?
“OK. Although I did go to one of the best boarding schools in the United States, so I’m not exactly Eliza Doolittle.”
“You Yanks are all the same,” he says, in an overexaggerated version of his own cut-glass English accent. His smile pulls only one side of his mouth. He’s trying to get on my nerves.
I stare at him and don’t react.
“Go out the door and come in,” he orders. “I’ll be old Finky. You’ll be you.”
“What?” This all seems contrived. “Role-play?”
He laughs. “Not the kind of role-play I enjoy. But we can. Shall I buy you a French maid outfit?”
“Fuck you, Grayson.” I go to the door. “I’m not knocking. I’ve come in already, OK?”
He puts on a tense face and tense body language, just like Mr. Fink. He gets up and gives me a firm handshake and says, “Hello there, Miss Price. I’ve heard so much about you.”
I’m going to laugh if I look at him. He sounds so weird.
“Eye contact, eye contact,” he hisses.
I look up at him, and the gleam in his eye, like he’s holding back laughter too, is too much. I burst into giggles.
His eyes shine, but he keeps it deadpan. “What on earth is funny, Miss Price?” His voice wobbles with laughter. “Is there something… amusing about me?”
I manage to swallow my mirth. “Oh, no, not at all, sir. I’m so enchanted to meet you, it all spilled out. I do apologize.”
He furrows his brow in exactly the way I saw Mr. Fink do on the video call, then pulls up another chair for me. “Well, please sit.” His voice is tense.
I cross my legs at the ankles and rest my hands in my lap. That was the way they taught the “ladies” to sit at boarding school. “Thank you.”
“No, no, no,” he says, back to his normal voice. “You’re sitting all wrong. Sit naturally. You look like you’re trying too hard.”
I was actually quite proud I’d remembered the position from boarding school. I feel a little deflated as I cross my right leg over my left, how I normally sit. “Fine. Can you just tell me everything to do in advance, please, so I don’t waste my time making mistakes?” My voice is as tense as Gray’s Mr. Fink.
He frowns at me, but it’s a Gray frown. He’s dropped the role play. “Mistakes? What are you talking about?”
I sigh. “Don’t let me make a fool of myself.”
He crumples up his face in confusion. “Erm, yeah. That’s why we’re doing this now. So you don’t make a fool of yourself and break the whole deal tomorrow?”
“Do you want me to act Miss Primand-Proper, or just be natural? I thought the first, but then you said not to cross my legs like that and—”
He leans back in the chair and looks over me, his brow still low. “Why are you so agitated?” There’s no judgment in the question. He’s genuinely curious.
“I’m not agitated.” I fiddle with my shoe. It’s all uncomfortable at the back.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.” I definitely sound agitated now.
He laughs. “Oh, yes, you are! —Oh, no, I’m not! —Oh, yes, you are! Sounds like we’re at a panto now.”
“A what?”
“Yank.”
“Shut up!”
He raises his eyebrows at me and sprawls back in the chair.
“Look,” I say. “I just don’t see why we have to do all this rehearsing. It’s not a Broadway production of Hamlet.”
“There’s a lot more riding on it.”
“OK, yes, there’s a lot of money at stake. But if we rehearse too much, it’s going to be unnatural. I don’t want to lie or pretend to be something or anything. I’ll just be myself and pretend I’m deeply and madly in love with you.”
A small, playful smile teases his lips. “Pretend?”
“Yes,” I say decisively. “Pretend. So don’t even try to make me feel like I’m not good enough for your aristocratic English standards, all right?”
“Not good enough?” His voice goes soft. “Too good, if anything. You think this is what I like?” He gestures around the place. “This is all dead. The house. The titles. Everything. As soon as we get this money, I’m outta here.”
“Really? Where will you go?”
“America, of course,” he says. “I feel freer there. Here they’re
all obsessed with class. In America, it’s like, I’m British. That’s it.”
I nod. “Which part of America?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe Seattle part of the time. I might move around. The States and some other countries. But I want to be in the States most of the time. Buy a few properties. Just small ones. High quality. But I guess it’ll depend where my new venture takes me.”
“New venture?” I ask. I imagine some wild business that’ll drain his father’s money before the year is out.
“Yes,” he says proudly. “I’m going to be an angel investor. Like you told me before, your father’s business is independent, right? Challenging the big guys. We… I could look for other businesses like that. Ones that need a cash injection. And give them the money.”
It’s a sweet sentiment, but there’s no room for sentiment in business. “But you know nothing about business. How are you going to know which companies are good to invest in, and which will flop?”
He grins. “Well, I’ve thought of that already. I’ll get someone who knows all about business.” He watches me with intense eyes. “Someone who’s already pulled a struggling business back from the brink.”
I know he’s talking about me. But I don’t want him to say it. Then I’ll have to give him an outright rejection.
“Well, I wish you all the best with it. For now, let’s just focus on getting the money in the first place.”
He leans back, frustratingly nonchalant. “We’ll get it.”
I don’t know what it is, but he’s irritating me. “And I suppose your angel-investing business will go swimmingly, too? With no problems?”
“Whoever said that?”
“You act like everything’s so easy.” I feel something rise in my chest. “Like you’re just going to get all this money, and you can be an angel investor, and we can be together, and everything will always work out fine. Life isn’t like that.”
“It can be.”
“Maybe for someone like you, born with a silver spoon in their mouth.”
He leans forward, angry. “Well, you’re hardly from the Bronx, are you?”
“Exactly my point! I’ve had one of the most privileged upbringings a person can have. And life is still hard. Things still fail. Things still don’t work out the way you want them to. Sure, you have no problems believing you can achieve anything you want and do it easily. But you know why that is? Because the only achievements you’ve made so far are drinking and sleeping with women. Not exactly brain surgery, is it? Or rocket science.”
“I’m sorry I’m not good enough for you,” he spits bitterly.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You know, Mr. Fink’s going to love you. Because you’re cynical and joyless, just like him. Just like my father, in fact. The three of you would have loved to hole up in Father’s office, bitching about how irresponsible I am.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
He gets to his feet. “I thought you’d be excited by my angel investing idea.”
“It’s a good idea, but—”
“But not for an irresponsible fool like me,” he snaps. “I know. Well, don’t worry. Just charm the solicitor with your cynical and joyless ways and soon you’ll be on your way with your money. You’ll never have to see me again.”
“But—”
“In fact, he might just give you all the money and bypass me altogether. Since you’re their type of person and I’m so clearly not.”
How did this conversation go downhill so fast? I don’t know what to say.
“You know, I actually thought you respected me for who I was. Not the whole Grayson Fairfax persona from school. The actual me. But that was probably a hint from that book you read, right? Just a tactic to get me to do what you want and try to make you happy.”
“No!”
“Now I know what it feels like when people told me I messed with their minds. Maybe I just got a taste of my own medicine.” He looks like he’s about to throw up. “I thought we had something. But you’re obviously just a lesson. A lesson that I can’t do what I used to do. And I can’t open up to anyone else, because they’ll do the same thing. So, basically, I can’t do anything with my life. I’ll just sit in this mansion and rot until I die. Wonderful. Bloody wonderful.”
Then he storms out and slams the door. A cloud of dust flies out of the carpet in front of it and sets me off coughing. Jeepers. The inner workings of Grayson Fairfax’s mind. He’s got as many issues as I do. Him being upset might make me want to jump up and run after him and comfort him, but not this time. He’s got to work that stuff out on his own. I have enough problems to deal with.
Chapter 19
Grayson
DAY 12
Today’s the day. I’ve set up everything old Finky likes in the drawing room—a bottle of port, plain digestive biscuits, and a small portion of salted peanuts. Everything’s going to go well, I’m sure about that. I don’t know what happened to me yesterday. It didn’t count, at any rate. I’m focusing on the billion. The billion that will buy me my freedom to live my life how I want.
I banned Lilly from the house in no uncertain terms, told Eddie to back me to the hilt, and instructed Isabella to wear a slightly tempting but still modest dress. I’m in conservative chinos, boring brown Clarks, and a polo shirt in the dullest, safest blue shade I own. Finky likes dull. Bright colors and cigars and designer trainers raise his heart rate. He’s such a nervous guy.
I swig back Diet Coke and survey the drawing room. Everything’s in perfect order. I even sent one of the staff out to buy a Financial Times. I laid it out next to my glass of port—I hate the stuff but it’ll be good to mirror his tastes—so he thinks I’m getting interested in finance and will manage the money well. I tried to actually read it, but it was dull as ditchwater. My eyes glazed over after “quantitative easing,” whatever the hell that is.
“Come on, Isabella!” I shout up the stairs. Thankfully, her room is near the top of the grand staircase. It can take nearly a full fifteen minutes to get to some of the more remote rooms. My voice echoes up around the atrium.
I toss the Diet Coke can in the bin in the kitchen. Mr. Fink disapproves of all that sort of thing. And as for drinking straight out of the can? I can imagine his tight face constricting into the kind of disapproval that would only really be warranted if I’d pissed in his port. Eddie and I have always joked that he needs a big bottle of rum and a few good-time gals to loosen him up.
By the time I’m back in the hallway, Isabella descends the stairs. This strange warmth spreads through me, seeing her. It’s weird. Like the lovely feeling you get when you drink a nice whiskey and you’re just slightly tipsy, in a nice cozy pub. Not drunk. But slightly out of your normal self. Happy. Content. She’s wearing a nice dress, also in blue, that hugs her tightly at the top and flares out from the waist.
“Do you think he’ll like this?” she says.
I like it. Surprisingly. It’s a little more conservative than my usual taste. “Yes. It’s brilliant. Now let’s go and sit in the drawing room and look in love until he comes.” I holler, “Rose, make sure to answer the door!” Rose is one of our longest-serving members of staff and can usually be found in the kitchen garden smoking a cigarette and complaining about how we don’t have enough staff to keep the place clean. She always says we should gift the mansion to the National Trust before it crumbles to the ground.
I lead Isabella into the drawing room. “Now, my beautiful fiancée, take your seat over there.” I point to the chair next to my armchair with the strategically placed port and newspaper. “You should drink port. It’ll make Finky warm to you immediately.”
She takes her seat and pulls a face. “Port tastes like raisins. I hate raisins.”
“Fine. What do you want?”
She scans the shelf behind me with all the exotic liquor bottles. “That blue bottle is so pretty.”
“Bombay Sapphire. Gin. Want some?”
“Ooh, yes, I’ll ha
ve a gin and tonic. That would help my nerves.”
“Nerves?” I scoff. “I thought you were the Ice Queen.” There’s this weird distance between us we haven’t had for a while. We’re not fighting. But there’s just this gap. Everything feels disconnected. I’m not sure if I want it to be or not. In any case, for now, I’m only focused on pleasing Mr. Fink.
“Just because I’m an independent woman, that doesn’t mean I’m some coldhearted bitch who doesn’t feel anything, you know.”
Eddie arrives at the door.
“Oh, good,” I say. “Get me a tonic, bro. The Ice Queen wants a G&T.”
“I’ll have one myself,” he says with a smile and disappears.
“Don’t call me that,” she growls.
I feel nerves myself. No way in hell I’m admitting that, though. I have to pace the room. “Independent Ice Woman, then.”
“Drop the ice.”
“You drop the ice. You’re still a glacier.” After the hot sex. After all the declarations of caring about each other. After having her head rest on my chest. It’s like none of it ever happened.
She adjusts her dress. “You’re still rude. And you evidently still enjoy making personal insults.”
“Oh, get over yourself.”
The doorbell rings. I flinch a little bit then check to see if she saw. She did, and an infuriating teasing smile draws up one side of her mouth. “Nerves? A bad boy like you?”
“Nerves?” I laugh and hurry to my chair. I pick up the Financial Times and try to look absorbed. I look over the paper from the top of my eyes and nearly say “For fuck’s sake!” out loud.
Lilly is hanging off Mr. Fink’s arm. She’s laughing and batting her eyelids. I’d expect him to look uncomfortable, but he seems charmed and flattered.
“Oh, hey, guys!” she says, like she didn’t know we’d all be here.
I rise to my feet, desperate to tell her to get lost. But I can see Mr. Fink’s enjoying the attention. I can’t antagonize him.
“Hello, Mr. Fink. Hello, Lilly.” I go over and shake Mr. Fink’s hand. “Please take a seat.”
They both do, and I settle back in my seat.
