Once A Bad Girl

  Once a Bad Girl

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  Once a Bad Girl

  Jane O’Reilly

  A bit of glitz, a bit of glam, a bit of bargaining…and a wardrobe malfunction. In the style of Victoria Dahl, a fun, flirty contemporary romance that explores how far one woman will go to save her family’s business – and the one man that stands in her way.

  It seems like a dream come true when whispers of a reclusive film star fallen on hard times meets Lottie Spencer’s ears. Desperate to save her family’s auction house, she knows that Hollywood memorabilia could be the answer to her prayers. Unfortunately, she’s about to find out that this client comes with strings attached – an overprotective son who will do anything to shield his mother from the prying eyes of the press. But Lottie is sure she can handle it.

  If only being around a bad boy didn’t make it so hard to be good…

  About the Author

  Jane O’Reilly started writing as an antidote to kids’ TV when her youngest child was a baby. Her first novel was set in her old school and involved a ghost and lots of death. It’s unpublished, which is probably for the best. Then she discovered contemporary romance, and that, as they say, was that. She lives near London with her husband and two children. You can find her at www.janeoreilly.com and on Twitter @janeoreilly.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the Romantic Novelists’ Association, and the anonymous reader who read and loved Once a Bad Girl when it made its way through the New Writers’ Scheme—you said it would be published, and you were right. I would also like to thank my writing partners Julia, Jessica and Maggie who have been with me through many bad manuscripts and rejections, Julie Cohen for her fantastic writing courses, and everyone else who has helped me along the way.

  For Patrick

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Also Available From Escape Publishing…

  Chapter One

  ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think this is a fake.’ Lottie tipped the art-deco bronze upside down and picked at the layer of greasy dirt on the marble base with her nail. She angled her wobbly desk light closer. ‘What do you think, Rach?’

  ‘I think you ought to stop manhandling that naked woman and look at this naked man.’

  Glancing over her shoulder, Lottie caught sight of a black-and-white photo of a male model wearing nothing but a towel and a scowl. She grinned. ‘No. Eyes are too close together.’

  Rachel stretched out in her chair and flicked to the next page of Guilty Pleasures magazine, an irresistible weekly dose of all things celebrity that neither of them could get enough of. ‘Can’t say I was looking at his eyes.’ She held out a manicured hand. ‘Pass it over.’

  Lottie kicked her creaky chair over to the other side of her tiny basement office, held out the statuette and held her breath. ‘If it is a fake, it’s the third one this month. The auction house can’t go on like this. All we’re pulling in is third-rate fakes and the junk from Great Aunt Vera’s attic. We haven’t had a big-ticket item in months. Every time I look at the accounts I could scream.’

  ‘You worry too much,’ Rachel informed her, as she checked the base with an expert eye.

  She rubbed at a smudge on the metal then dumped the figure on the floor by her bare feet. ‘You need to get your priorities straight. How about this one?’ She jabbed at another photo in her magazine. ‘Look. He plays rugby for England, and his girlfriend just dumped him. He’s probably crying into his beer right now, wishing the right woman would walk into his life and mend his broken heart.’

  Lottie leaned in and checked out the man in question. He had a certain muscular-thighed charm, she had to admit, but it made no difference. When it came to the opposite sex, her judgement was utterly unreliable, and the auction house was too important to risk making another mistake like her last boyfriend. ‘No. I’d prefer a man who has all his own teeth.’ Or failing that, one who wasn’t sleeping with her just so he could find out exactly which heirlooms his aged mother was trying to sell.

  ‘Teeth, schmeeth.’ Rachel waved a dismissive hand, then picked up her coffee. ‘I get that you’re married to this place, Lottie, but there’s nothing wrong with a little window shopping. When was the last time you took a day off? Had a night out?’

  ‘I’ll window shop later.’ Much later. As the youngest and only surviving Spencer child, the responsibility for the auction house weighed heavily on her, but she didn’t mind. It was right that it should, even if it didn’t leave much time or energy for anything else. ‘Right now, I’ve got to get this lot polished and catalogued. The owner wants it in the sale on Saturday.’

  ‘The owner wants to dump it in the nearest skip.’

  Lottie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, then angled her friend a pleading look. ‘You reckon it is a fake?’

  Rachel nodded. With her long red hair and short red dress, she could have been stalking across the cover of Vogue, but instead spent her time neck deep in antiques and loving it. If it was worth knowing, Rachel knew it, and Lottie trusted her implicitly. ‘Fake as the boobs of a footballer’s wife. Late repro, and not even a good one. It’s worth maybe 50 quid. On a good day.’

  Her insides setting like concrete, Lottie stared hard at the photo hung on the wall above her desk, at the bright-eyed, dark-haired boy and girl stood side by side on the beach, wearing hired wetsuits and matching grins. She and David had been 16 and 13 when that was taken, so sure of themselves, so cocky. They’d learned the hard way that they weren’t invincible.

  Gritting her teeth, Lottie let her gaze slide to the phone that sat on the corner of her desk. ‘I’ll have to ring the owner, let him know. Honestly, you’d think after all these years my dad would be better at spotting them.’

  ‘So let him deal with it. It’s his name over the door, he’s the one who brought it in.’

  Lottie rubbed her hands over her face. ‘David could always tell. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense or something.’ And if her brother was still alive, they wouldn’t be in this mess. ‘I wish I had half his talent.’

  ‘You’ve got plenty of talent.’

  ‘Talent for screwing up, you mean.’

  ‘There’s no point dwelling on the past, Lottie. You can’t change it.’ Rachel sat forwards, her hazel eyes sparking with concern. ‘You need a break from this place.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Lottie told her firmly. ‘Just a little stressed, that’s all.’ Eighteen months ago, her dad wouldn’t have given the bronze a second glance. Now he was letting all sorts of things slip onto the sales floor. It was almost as if he didn’t care, and that worried her.

  ‘Even more reason to get out of the office,’ Rachel said. ‘How about we take the afternoon off, go for a stroll down by the river and see what we can pick up. I fancy something early 20s and Spanish.’

  Lottie shook her head. ‘You’re shameless, you know that?’ A tiny pang of envy caught her off guard, but she crushed it. ‘Anyway,’ she said, sticking out her chin, ‘I went out with a man last week.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Barry,’ Lottie replied, sliding her gaze sideways. ‘We went out for lunch.’

  Rachel rolled her eyes and made a retching sound. ‘Lunch with Barry is not a date, Lottie. In some countries,
they’d call it torture and use it to force criminals to confess to heinous crimes. Please tell me you didn’t let him kiss you, otherwise I’ll have to go and be sick on your behalf.’

  ‘God, no. It was strictly a working lunch.’

  ‘Did Barry know that?’

  ‘Possibly not,’ Lottie admitted. It had been awful and then some, but she didn’t want to let Rachel know how desperate the situation at the auction house was. She hadn’t told Rachel yet, but her job was next in the firing line. It was hard to pretend things weren’t bad when she was reduced to lunch with someone she couldn’t stand simply because he worked at a rival business. ‘I did manage to get some interesting information out of him though.’

  ‘Without kissing? You go, girl! So what did you find out? That he’s really an alien from Planet Slimeball?’

  Lottie pulled the elastic from her hair, then scooped it back into a low ponytail and retied it. ‘Ha. No, better than that.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Apparently, a Hollywood actress has been in touch with them. There’s a big sale on the cards.’

  Rachel’s eyes went huge, and she wrapped her fingers tightly round the arms of her chair. ‘Seriously? Did you get a name?’

  Lottie nodded, feeling the same tingling rush of excitement that had made her spill her drink all down Barry’s trouser leg. ‘Marlene Blakemore.’

  There was a moment of hushed silence, followed by a low whistle.

  ‘Exactly,’ Lottie said, her chest tight. ‘Imagine if we could get her to sell through Spencer’s instead. She’s so famous, Rach. Just think about the stuff she must have tucked away. How often do Oscar-winning actresses go to auction houses to sell instead of buy?’

  ‘But no-one has seen her in what, 15 years? Not since her husband walked out, remember that? For all we know, she’s a modern-day Miss Havisham, stalking through her mansion in her couture and diamonds.’ Rachel lifted her hands, wiggled her fingers and made ghoulish noises. They stared at each other for a minute, horrified, then the giggles infected them both.

  ‘What you need,’ Rachel continued, wiping her eyes, ‘is a great big hunk of a man with biceps like boulders and legs like tree trunks who will lay himself on the line and protect you as you sprint through the rooms, grabbing anything that looks vaguely saleable.’

  ‘And where am I supposed to find one of those? Hunks R Us?’

  ‘Look,’ Rachel replied, turning back to Guilty Pleasures and flicking through so fast the pages ripped at the edge. She held it up.

  A grainy snapshot showed a man lolling back on a sun lounger, wearing tropical shorts and a baggy t-shirt. Dark glasses obscured his face. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Read the caption,’ Rachel ordered her. ‘And then tell me he’s not exactly what you need.’

  Taking the magazine, Lottie held it closer and scanned the snippet. Nightclub owner Josh Blakemore, 28, is currently in London as work gets underway on his latest club, and will be attending the Love London conference. This sexy son of a movie star is apparently single at the moment. Get in the queue ladies!

  ‘That conference is this afternoon.’ Lottie couldn’t believe it. This was it. This was her way in. She stared at Rachel, a crazy idea forming in her head. She couldn’t quite see the boulder biceps or tree-trunk legs, but she didn’t need those anyway. ‘Yes,’ she said, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘He’s perfect!’

  Why had he left Miami and white sand and palm trees for this? Pulling in a breath, Josh swirled the iced water in his tumbler and tried to get interested in the conversation the two men next to him were having. He’d been locked in the vast conference room, a futuristic prison of tinted glass and polished steel, for the past two hours. He’d mingled, chatted, laughed when he was supposed to, and now he wanted nothing more than to get out of here, get out of his suit and race his bike across Regent’s Park until his muscles screamed.

  Outside, the hot August sunshine bounced off the River Thames, and he wanted to be out in it as it scorched the pavement and burned the tourists. But with a new club due to open in Mayfair in a month, he couldn’t afford to put anyone’s nose out of joint. He’d sunk a good chunk of cash into it, had a lot of staff depending on him, and competition for high-end nightclubs was tough. Pull in the right celebrities and he’d be laughing. Annoy the wrong people here, and he could find his licence pulled. Or worse.

  And then there was the girl.

  Something about her had set his senses on high alert the second she’d walked in, clutching her bag in a death grip, wobbling on super high heels. Something about her was off. She didn’t belong here, didn’t fit in. The staff had made no attempt to throw her out, so clearly her presence was legitimate, but that didn’t stop his instincts from telling him she was trouble.

  Neither did the fact that she had been sneaking little glances at him every time she thought he wasn’t looking. To be fair, he’d snuck his own share back. The dark-purple dress she wore covered her from wrist to knee, but couldn’t hide a very lush figure. She had dark hair piled on top of her head in some sort of messy updo and spent most of her time fiddling with the chain around her neck, when she wasn’t too busy fiddling with her earring, or her handbag.

  Twitch, twitch, twitch. Josh rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, gave up on the conversation, and risked another glance in her direction. A prickling awareness coasted through his body as he watched her move across to the buffet table and fill her plate for what had to be the third time. If things were different, he’d have liked that about her, that edge of shamelessness. He’d have liked the way her dress pulled tight across breasts that were high and full, how serious her expression was when she made her selection from the buffet, and how she didn’t belong here any more than he did.

  But things weren’t different, and she was just another chancer on the prowl. He was sure of it.

  She turned her head and their gazes locked.

  His pulse kicked.

  Her eyes were violet. Shockingly, piercingly violet.

  The tiny triangle of whatever she’d just lifted from her plate flew into the air, and she spun away, crashing straight into an unsuspecting waiter. Glassware flew in all directions as the silver tray he’d been carrying dropped to the floor, flipped once, twice before coming to a rest upside down on top of her feet.

  Silence dropped like a bomb. Everywhere around him, people turned and stared, but did nothing to help as the waiter stood there with a look of shocked panic on his face, and the girl wobbled some more on those skyscraper shoes.

  ‘For god’s sake,’ Josh muttered. Without a second’s hesitation, he strode over to the buffet table.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ he heard her say frantically, as she dumped her plate on the buffet table and crouched down to pick up the tray then thrust it at the waiter, who had the skinny build and help-me reaction of a teenager without much work experience.

  Josh set a hand to his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Get some more staff out here to sort this out and go get yourself cleaned up.’

  Then he turned to the cause of the trouble. Miss Twitchy stood inches away, scarlet-faced. ‘I can’t believe I did that,’ she said, flapping her hands. ‘I am such an idiot.’

  Josh wasn’t entirely sure she was talking to him, because she was staring at the floor and the glasses littering it, but he decided to run with it. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’

  Dark, feathery lashes slowly lifted, and those bright eyes came into view. Close up their impact was even more powerful. For a moment, Josh felt like he’d been poleaxed.

  ‘No. No, we haven’t. I’m Lottie. Lottie Spencer. It’s good to meet you.’ She held out her hand, silver bangles clinking on her wrist.

  God, she really was gorgeous. Close up, he could see the pale freckles sprinkled across her cheeks, the soft curve of her mouth which was the same colour as the strawberries he’d watched her eat. He took her outstretched hand and shook it. F
ireworks shot up his arm. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lottie Spencer. I’m Josh. Josh Blakemore.’

  Her name wasn’t familiar, but he knew from experience that names didn’t mean much. It didn’t take much effort to think one up, to slip on a new persona. Hell, his mother was an actress. He’d learned everything there was to know about faking it before he could walk. And the alarm bells had started ringing the second this woman had walked into the room and eyed him up like a prize bull, as if he was both impressive and terrifying.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That’s nice. This is an interesting building, isn’t it?’ Her voice, all breathy and flirtatious, wrapped around him as she waved a delicate hand at the curved glass that surrounded them like an oversized goldfish bowl. ‘It’s so kind of the Lord Mayor to invite all these people. And the view is simply magnificent from up here.’

  Josh couldn’t put his finger on exactly what had started the alarm bells ringing. He only knew that he’d been here too many times before. Being the son of a film star had its benefits, it was true. It also had more than its fair share of negatives.

  And if he wasn’t mistaken, he was staring one in the face right now. What did she want? Who was she, really? A journalist? A professional blogger hell bent on digging out the skeletons from his mother’s closet? It didn’t matter either way. From the moment he’d been old enough to talk, people had used him. Pretending to be his friend, then selling his words to the press. Taking photos at his birthday parties, making sure they caught his mother in the background. Sleeping with him for a few column inches.

  But he was wise to it now. ‘It looked to me like you were more interested in the buffet table than the view,’ he said, setting a hand on the small of her back and steering her neatly out of the way as a couple of waitresses appeared armed with sweeping brushes and cloths.

  ‘Well, the food is good too,’ she said, stepping a little too close to him. ‘Would be a shame to let it go to waste. The world is full of starving people, you know. Not that any of them are here, obviously. But that’s not the point.’