Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“Since when have you been interested in classic cars?” I ask, getting my workbag out and leaving my gym bag on the back seat.
“Since one of my new clients gave me a private viewing of his collection.”
Arlington Hall looms over us as I take in air. It’s crazy the apprehension I’m feeling. Crazy. But I can’t help feeling it. The last time I was here, just over a week ago, I got something wholly unexpected.
Butterflies.
“This way, please, madam,” a green-suited man says, guiding me toward the reception area. I walk in and immediately find Evelyn Harrison’s portrait.
“That’s her,” I say to Clark. “Isn’t she something?” Just the way she holds herself. So bloody elegant.
“You know,” Clark says wistfully, “some people you just look at and know they’re richer than God.” He spots some colleagues and wanders off as Anouska comes out of a staff door behind reception. She looks up, sees me, frowns, and then realises who she’s looking at, smiling. It must be my hair that momentarily threw her.
“Hi,” I say, approaching.
“Miss Lazenby, how lovely to see you.” I can tell she’s dreading the possibility of me grilling her over the information a perfect stranger got from a confidential file she holds.
“I’m here for the conference, so thought I’d grab my wallet.”
“Of course. I’ll get it from the safe.” She hurries off and returns a moment later, handing it over. “Registration is that way.” She points to a glass corridor that leads to another part of the hotel. “In the Kent Suite. Just a heads-up, given the change in venue, we’re asking attendees to reselect their dinner choices.” She smiles, awkward. “Please do make sure you let them know about your allergy.”
“I will.”
“Is it severe?” she asks, joining me on the walk through the glass tunnel toward the Kent Suite.
“I don’t think so. I didn’t drop down dead when I took a bite of my friend’s Nutella toast when we were ten, so that’s positive.” I reach into my handbag. “I’ve been caught out a few times over the years, so I carry these.”
Anouska looks at my EpiPens and winces. “Caught out?”
“I picked up the wrong iced coffee in Pret once.” My nose scrunches. “It had almond syrup in it.”
“Oh no, what happened?”
“Breathlessness, fast heart. A mad dash for the ladies’ to sit down in private and let the EpiPen do its work.”
“And that’s it? You give yourself a shot and you’re okay?”
“Pretty much.” I slip my EpiPens back in my handbag. “The first few times it happened, my mum would take me to the hospital so they could monitor me, but I’ve learned to manage it over the years and listen to my body.” I’m dying, just dying, to ask her how she knows the man. Who is he? How old, his name, what he does for a living? I quickly pull my thoughts back into line, getting increasingly frustrated with myself and my inability to keep my mind from straying to him.
“Let me know if you need anything—I’ll be happy to help.” Anouska’s peace offering for giving out information on me?
“Thanks.” I smile as she walks off, but it drops when I see someone. He spots me, and I groan as he puffs his chest out. Of course I knew he’d be here. Of course I planned on avoiding him; I make a point of it daily at work. Problem is, Leighton Steers likes to be seen. And heard. And admired.
“Lazenby,” he says, smoothing a hand through his hair. He should have been a salesman. Slick.
“Steers,” I say, my smile tight.
“What’s with the hair?” He reaches for my loose blond waves and flaps them a little, and it’s all I can do not to kick him in the bollocks. He doesn’t intend to be sexist. It’s in his bloodline.
“Don’t touch my hair, Steers,” I warn, a little playful, a lot serious. His hands come up in surrender, his body moving back. I can’t believe this is the douchebag I’m up against for partner.
“Nice place, huh? I bet the lucky fucker who owns this is worth a few quid.” He jiggles his eyebrows. “They’ll be my client by the end of the day, just you watch.”
“If they own this place, I expect they have their financial affairs in order.”
“Everyone is free game.” Leighton swaggers off and gets all guy-like with a few of the men from LB&B.
“God, I hate him.”
“Why?” Gary’s assistant, Shelley, joins me, holding out a lanyard. “Because he’s sexist and narrow-minded? Or because he’s a plain dickhead?” I laugh as Shelley gives me a sardonic look, and I accept my name badge. “If it makes you feel any better, I hope you thrash him and make partner.”
“Thanks.”
“I better go hand out the rest of the name badges. I have a special one for Leighton.” She holds up a little white card that says prick and slips it behind the card with his name on it. I press my lips together and watch Shelley slope off, slipping my lanyard over my head and frowning when I have to reach back and sweep my hair out from under it. I should have tied it up.