“Leila?”
“Yes?”
“Is everything all right?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“I meant between us.”
I rolled over to face him in the near-dark and fell face-first into the scents of toothpaste and soap. “Of course it is.”
He stroked a curl from my cheek. “I can get you your own room if it’s what you really want.”
“Oh, no.” I kissed him, cupping his cheeks and surprising myself at my own passion. “I’m sorry I’ve made things so awkward. I just…I feel like I don’t know you.”
He laughed, and I was paranoid for a moment that he mocked me. “Girls like you aren’t meant to say things like that.”
“You don’t feel like a client.” I’d said the same thing the first time he hired me.
“That wasn’t what I meant…but you don’t feel like a call girl,” he replied, repeating his own line. “And I have to be up in five hours–hardly the time for my life story, Bond movie that it is.”
“But who are you?” I echoed the question I’d dreamed.
“Not entirely sure. Ask me another.”
“What are you?” My smile turned playful.
“Tired. Frustrated. Awkwardly sober.”
“Not that tired.” I brushed his hard cock with my knee and he swatted it away.
“One more question, and that’s it. I need to sleep.”
“Okay,” I said finally. “What’s your opinion on Ikea meatballs?”
One eye shot open beneath an arched blond brow. “Dra at helvete.”
“What…?”
“Oh.” He paused. “You mean the actual meatballs, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“Sorry. Thought you were having a Swedish dig.”
“You’re Swedish?” I wasn’t far off with Nordic, then. “I thought you were American. Kind of.”
“I’m both, one way or the other. But mainly British. I like British best.”
I poked him in the ribs. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Mmm?”
“Meatballs, Joe.”
“Processed crap. Fucking disgusting.”
I feigned a pout.
“Big bad wolves don’t eat meatballs. We eat nuns. And accountants.” He shoved me down with his free arm, holding my head on the pillow. “Now get some sleep so you can resume being Red Riding Hood tomorrow.”
“Do I get a badge with that on?” I giggled.
“I’m going to punish your mouth first.”
I tugged his hand around and licked his palm. “Sounds like a plan.”
I lay there, pressed into the curve of his body, comfortable with him for the first time since we’d arrived. We had never spent more than an hour alone. The excitement was heady, but this had a familiar intimacy, too. He would lie next to me for a good few hours, utterly naked…and I had chosen to sleep?
I bit along his thumb and then his arm lightly, kissing his warm-smelling skin.
He groaned into the back of my neck. “Wolves eat little girls too.”
* * * *
The six of us looked rather silly in the boardroom that Monday morning. Like in our suite, the ceilings soared and the long, polished table had fallen straight out of a daytime TV show. Sadie wrestled with a PowerPoint projector and I mostly panicked that I hadn’t done anything with PowerPoint. I seethed silently at Poppy, who was poised behind a shiny laptop, adjusting her glasses every two minutes and chewing her bottom lip.
Matt, too, seemed surprisingly organized. Joseph must have scared the shit out him the previous night, because he arrived clutching a neat file of highlighted notes and he also had a smarmy little presentation, complete with clip-art.
I hated them both for a good ten seconds. I hated myself even more for feeling threatened because I’d been too wrapped up in my sad little soap opera to do as much work.
Everyone kept saying that the job on Joseph’s team was mine, kept insinuating that I was a shoe-in. The masochistic streak in me wanted to prove them all wrong, just because…which was kind of stupid.
“Matt?”
He snapped up to look at Joseph.
“You’re going first. The rest of you children can wait outside.”
Poppy and I gathered our belongings and filed out quickly. We sank onto a sofa in the conference lobby, an echo of the morning past in the airport. Yesterday, though, blood had roared in my ears for a different reason altogether.
“Nervous?” I asked Poppy.
She nodded. “A bit. I’ll be glad when it’s done.”
“Me too. That’s if I can remember everything.”
She held up a little wad of purple. “I made flashcards. I’m very sad, aren’t I?”
I wanted to say yes, but–”That’s actually quite sensible. I’ve just got this.” I held up a sheet of paper that looked like a long-lost treasure map.
“That looks how I feel.” She grinned. “Have you got any plans for after this?”
“Well…since I probably won’t be joining Joe and Yves to plan the pitch, I might go and browse things I can’t afford.”
A pause, stuffed and shaky.
“What?” I said.
“Joe?” She raised an impish eyebrow.
I spent a few seconds blinking at her before I realized what she was getting at.
“That’s his name,” I mumbled. I actually blushed.
“To you, perhaps.” She gave an awkward little laugh. “I think he’d be rather unimpressed if I called him that.”
Silence descended once more in all its glorious discomfort, and Charlotte rolled her eyes.
“What are you going to do?” I said. “If you end up not pitching, that is.”
“Walk to Wall Street, I think. Take some photos. Pretend I can buy shares.”
“Do you remember that awful fantasy stock market thing they made us do last Christmas?”
“Yep.” She smiled wistfully. “I liked it. Again–I am aware that it makes me sad. But it was better than Fantasy Football.”
“I think Solomon rigged it.”
“Of course he did. He looks like the kind of man who enjoys cheating more than playing fairly. He wears…” She scowled in disgust. “Nehru jackets.”
“We’re tax lawyers. I think that’s the point. The not playing fairly, anyway. Not sure about the absurd formal wear.”
The door creaked open at that point and Matt strode out, his face mellow with relief. He even managed a vague smile. “Poppy’s next.” He gestured to her.
“Great. I mean, I’ll get it over with,” she said quickly, bouncing up and sliding her laptop bag over her shoulder.
“Break a leg,” I said.
Heh.
She hurried in and Matt sat down cautiously.
“How did it go?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Better than I expected.”
“Good, that’s really good.” I attempted a smile, but he didn’t look up to see it. “Have you heard from Aidan at all?”
“Yeah. Going to meet him after lunch, actually.”
“What happens if you’re pitching?”
“I won’t be pitching. You don’t have to pussyfoot around me, Leila.”
“I wasn’t–”
“Good,” he snapped. His knuckles were white as they stretched across his file. “He’s doing this on purpose, isn’t he?”
“How do you mean?”
“Putting us together. Like last night at dinner.”
I chewed my lip for a moment. “I think so.”
“You like that, do you? How he likes to play games with people?” Anger plucked at the ends of his words.
“I don’t know that they’re games.” It was easier to say that than skewer him with complexities I barely understood myself.
“Of course they fucking are, Leila. He did it on that first night and he’s still doing it now. What do you see in him?”
“A job,” I said helplessly. Liar.
�
��You said…you said that I like to torture myself.” His hands were twisting in his lap now. “He likes torturing other people. Which one is better?” He didn’t give me the chance to answer; he launched himself up and sauntered down the hallway.
I opened my mouth to call to him, but my voice wouldn’t come. I dug a bottle of water from my bag and drank deeply. A moral lecture was the last thing I needed this morning–the last thing I needed in general, all things considered.
First Aidan, now Matt…did everyone think Joseph was an arsehole?
Were they right?
I don’t know how long I sat waiting for Poppy to finish. Long enough to craft my own PowerPoint show, anyway, and I teetered on the verge of making my own flash cards when she emerged from the meeting room.
“Sorry about that, Leila,” she said. “We got on to a debate about some bit of the City Code and it was fascinating–”
Yves nudged her aside as he ushered me in. “If you say so, St. Clare. Vaughn, are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” I was already jealous of her debate. Crap. What could I look excessively clever with?
Joseph already had his head in his arms on the table. He looked up as I got to the end. “This had better be very concise, Miss Vaughn. I have four and a half minutes of patience left.”
My notes stuck to my sweaty fingers as Sadie connected my laptop to the projector.
“When I do this,” I began, “am I doing it as if you two are Redfish? Or just like I’m explaining what I would do?”
Joseph shrugged. “I honestly don’t give a fuck.”
“I concur.” Yves tapped a pencil against the polished table top and I wanted to shove it through his eye socket.
Oh God. When did I go all psychopath? Was this what New York did to people?
I waited for my presentation to load, and drank more water. The atmosphere felt oiled and tetchy; the tension made me flush.
“So,” I began. “Redfish are proposing to make an offer on The Hemmings Lab PLC in order to create a platform for their goods in the UK. Bach and Dagier can do three things to facilitate this takeover: We can run the offer process, manage UK tax interests regarding the acquisition and integration, and on the other side of things, smooth the way for Redfish to import–and export–their products with the European Chemical Agency and the MHRA. In summary, unlike a lot of UK houses, we’re set up to offer a thorough service to these particular clients, and our expertise in the pharmaceutical industry is explicit.”
Joseph gave a single nod and I tapped the space bar on my laptop.
“There’s sufficient interest in Hemmings so Redfish need to act quickly. We have a neatly tailored package regarding Offers that is conducive to…”
I could bore you with the rest of my jargon but I suspect that boring Yves and Joseph with it was quite enough. As the words spilled out, I remembered, for the first time in a good few days, that all this interested me, that it actually made sense.
I skimmed over the basic structure of things and got stuck into tax loopholes for the acquisition. My suggestions were nothing the partners hadn’t thought of, but it was noted that they were there. I went over timescales for the takeover before tearing into Hemmings. They didn’t trade outside the UK as yet and were more known for their research, so much could be installed for Redfish to be used–and abused–as a trading platform, if the acquisition went ahead. Then I finished with a fee summary and as bright a smile as I could summon.
“You haven’t covered anti-trust,” said Yves, his eyes narrow.
“It’s not relevant in this case.” I paused, glancing at Joseph. “Is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” he agreed.
I waited. Silence. “Well?”
“It was good,” Yves said finally.
Joseph started to make notes on his file. “You’re excused,” he muttered, waving a hand.
There should have been relief it was over and that I hadn’t passed out in the middle of it, but instead, I felt…confused.
I tried to catch Joseph’s eye. “When do we find out the results?”
“We’ll send texts around lunchtime. If you’re chosen, you come back here for the afternoon and if not, you’re free until tomorrow,” he said, still scribbling.
“Okay. Um. Thanks.” Feeling ragingly uncomfortable, I gathered my things and hurried out of the room.
It occurred to me in the lift that Matt hadn’t needed to join me earlier. He wasn’t obliged to wait. He’d wanted that excuse to talk to me–or talk at me, as the case had been. That was progress…I supposed.
I met Poppy for lunch and we talked through our pitches, ordering good wine to extinguish our nerves. Secretly, I was smug about her total remittance of the MHRA, and then equally panicked about the idea of spending an afternoon with two people who knew what they were talking about, complicated by the fact that I shared a bed with one of them.
Poppy’s phone vibrated first and her hand jerked over it, almost knocking the wine. Mine went off a second later and we were both giggling as we read the messages. All mine said was: Later. J x
Erm.
Then Poppy squealed in delight.
“Congratulations,” I said, trying not to sound flat.
She beamed like an evil garden gnome. “I’m sorry you didn’t get it, Leila. But wow. I can’t believe I’m really pitching tomorrow.” She gripped my arm. “It’s all starting to feel a bit real…we’ll be qualified soon.”
“Yeah.” I polished a glass of wine off in about three gulps. “You’d better get your arse over to them, then.”
“I had, hadn’t I?” She stood, grabbing her bag. “Do I look all right?”
I squinted at her. She was polished as ever, square glasses subtle, and her shift dress pretty in a very classic way. “You look immaculate, Pops. Now go and be a proper solicitor for the afternoon.”
I watched her shuffle off with a fizzy head, and it wasn’t from the wine. What had she done better than me? Was this bad, should I worry?
Back in the hotel room, I sat on the terrace for a while and watched the traffic pass by. New York smelled like my walk to work in London: sweet deli bread and cheese, potent coffee, car exhausts. The tainted air exfoliated, waking me up and sanding off the morning.
Inside, I went to raid the mini bar and the door swung open. I found myself watching it expectantly.
“Hi.”
“Hello.” Joseph nodded at me and disappeared straight into the bedroom. He emerged a moment later, bare-chested and clutching a clean shirt on a hanger. “Needed to change. Yves makes me feel dirty, it’s like his hangover is contagious.”
Still rooted to the spot, I smiled at him. I couldn’t tear my eyes from his broad shoulders, the streaks of muscle that sculpted his chest. He draped the shirt over a chair and strode over, taking my face in his hands.
I think I kissed him, maybe he kissed me, I can’t remember. It wasn’t important. We were both ravenous.
“I need to give her this,” he whispered, dragging my fists to his torso. “I have to be seen to be fair.”
“I know.” I kissed him again, mewing in relief–half at the shock of his skin and half at his reassurance.
He pawed at me like a monk released from vows. I felt as naked as him from the waist up; every stitch I wore was insignificant. He already bulged over the top of his belt and I toyed with him with forceful thumbs.
“Don’t,” he mumbled, nudging me away. “I was only meant to be gone for a few minutes.”
“Then be quick. I don’t care.” I tugged at the buckle. “I can’t stand not having you–”
“Good. It’s your turn to suffer.”
“But how long?”
“Tonight.” Teeth caught at my throat roughly. “I have to finish this pitch…there’s a networking dinner…but I won’t be late. You’ll be here,” he said firmly, “waiting for me.”
I reached for his shirt and began helping him into it. “How’s it going down there?”
“Slow and
excruciating.”
A wicked grin splashed over my face.
“Not in the good way.” He tucked his shirt in and bent to kiss me again. “Leila…I want you to think of a word.”
“Hmm?” I peeled my tongue from his collar bone.
“A safety word,” he murmured thickly.
“Oh.” I swallowed and shivered at the same time. “Oh.”
“Can you do that for me?”
“Yes.”
“Good girl.” He stroked a fingertip over my bottom lip. “I haven’t forgotten about punishing your mouth, you know.”
I laughed, trying to catch him with my teeth as he darted the finger in and out. “We’ll see about that.”
“I mean it. I really do have to leave.”
“Tonight, then.”
He nodded. “I’d better rejoin the Fuckwits at Law.”
When he returned, it would be the first time we would be together without a deadline. Without restraint. The thought made my blood bubble and my flesh swell.
Chapter 17
I dialled Aidan’s number and walked back out onto the terrace.
“Lei-Lei! Are you coming out to join us?” He had that smug tone to his voice, and I knew he was doing the awful tourist thing, sunglasses and all.
“You and Matt?” Yeah, because we’d make a lovely little ménage right now.
“Me and Matt-Matt are doing a pub tour,” he announced.
“Stop fucking calling me that!” Matt ranted in the background.
“I don’t think I’d be very welcome right now.”
“Probably not–we’re having a good bitch about you,” Aidan tittered.
“What do you have to bitch about? I’ve always been nice to you!”
“You tell me to fuck off all the time, you foul-mouthed succubus. And you’ve refused to blow me more than once.” There was a pause and a groan. “Sorry, Matt-Matt.”
“It’s Matt!”
Aidan gave a mocking great scream in my ear and I held the phone away, gritting my teeth.
“Have you two quite finished with the homo-erotic wrestling?” I said.
“Unfortunately.” Aidan laughed. “Are you free later, Lei-Lei?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Pork sword duty?”
“Something like that.” I twisted a curl around my finger. “Tomorrow maybe?”
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