Once A Bad Girl Read online

  Josh picked up a tall, skinny glass from the table and held it out to her, and ignored the sick feeling in his gut. He didn’t like what he was about to do, but he’d found it was the most effective way to deal with women like this. Doing nothing didn’t work. They just came back for more. It paid to be proactive. ‘So how does it feel?’

  She took the glass. ‘How does what feel?’

  ‘Popping your conference cherry.’

  ‘I…excuse me?’

  ‘I know everyone here but you,’ Josh said calmly, settling into his routine. He knew his lines off by heart. ‘Definitely your first time. Otherwise you’d have known the rules.’

  ‘What rules?’

  ‘Strict dress code, for starters. Bad suits are compulsory. Sweat patches optional but preferred. And definitely no slinky, sexy dresses.’

  One dark eyebrow shot up. ‘So where’s your bad suit?’

  ‘I don’t own a bad suit.’

  ‘Then you’re the rule breaker, not me. Because this is not a sexy dress,’ she said, lifting her champagne flute to her lips and wrapping one arm around her middle.

  ‘That depends on your definition of sexy.’ Josh reached out, stroked a finger down her sleeve. ‘How about we ditch the bad suit brigade and go somewhere a little less crowded?’

  Her eyes flew wide, and she broke into a spasm of coughing so fierce that he was about to call the paramedics when she straightened up. ‘Are you always this forward, Mr Blakemore?’

  Josh looked her up and down and felt like a sleaze. ‘Depends how attractive the woman I’m talking to is,’ he said. ‘You’re rating a nine. I can’t say if you’d hit 10. You’re not naked.’

  ‘Naked?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Lottie? You’ve been watching me for the past hour. We both know what you want.’

  She shook her head, and a long strand of hair fell loose across her cheek. Then she looked at him like he was something unpleasant she’d just stepped in. ‘And what is that?’

  ‘The same thing I do,’ he replied. ‘You don’t need to pretend, babe.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ she said, choking out a laugh. ‘Did you seriously just call me babe?’ Her gaze fell on the champagne flute, and Josh steeled himself in preparation. At least this way, he’d have a good excuse to leave. He could hardly stay after he’d been doused in champagne.

  But instead, she pressed the glass into his hand. She stared at him, and for a moment Josh thought he saw disappointment in those bright violet eyes, like she’d just tipped out her stocking on Christmas morning and found a rotten apple. Touché, he thought.

  Then she shook her head. ‘You’re a creep,’ she said. ‘And I really am an idiot.’ She turned on her heel and walked away, the sway of her hips emphasised by the tight fit of fabric across a firm, round bum.

  Josh carefully lowered the champagne flute onto the table. He eased it across the cloth, until it was safely out of the way of elbows and handbags. A strange ache had started up in his stomach, and his heart was pounding too hard, too fast. He was both hacked off and turned on.

  You’re a creep. For some reason, those three little words had cut into him and he didn’t like it. She was wrong. She was so wrong.

  And he needed her to know it.

  Cheek of the man! And to think she’d taken an afternoon off work to travel halfway across London for that. Folding her arms, Lottie hurried across the open-plan corridor towards the glass tube that housed the lift. The grey light filtering through the glass ceiling matched her mood perfectly.

  Every step she took in her impractical, increasingly painful shoes pushed her anger up a notch. She’d worn the silver suede peep toes in the vain hope of giving herself a boost in the style stakes, because her pitiful excuse for a dress certainly couldn’t, and she hadn’t had time to do anything with her hair other that twist it up on top of her head and hope it wouldn’t collapse. What a waste of effort that had been.

  Everything she’d wanted for the auction house, and, she admitted painfully, for herself, had crash-landed in a town called Disaster. And she could feel the stinging squish of a blister on her little toe.

  It all begged the question—where had she got the crazy idea that Josh Blakemore was someone she could do business with?

  Or that she could do business with anyone? Ever?

  The lift appeared in no hurry to show. She gave up and stomped towards the stairs. She didn’t try to stop her filthy mood from taking over. If anything, she encouraged it.

  Better that than let the disappointment and the shame creep in. Heat hit the back of her eyes as tears smacked the front. It was Failure with a capital F. Spencer’s was going to crash and burn in a haze of debt, and it would be all her fault. She’d wanted so badly, so desperately to succeed. Everything had been planned so perfectly.

  And then she’d met Josh Blakemore.

  He’d given her that cool come on, put his gaze places he shouldn’t, and generally sleazed all over her like a big, gorgeous bag of oozy slime. It wasn’t right. Someone that horrible on the inside should be horrible on the outside, too. He should be short and fat, with a sun bed tan and stringy hair. He’d no right looking so…so healthy. No right to have such lush, dark hair, or such a distinct lack of overhang above his tan leather belt.

  But that wasn’t really the problem, was it? No. The problem was her, and the fact that she had simply been unable to handle him. She was…she was just useless.

  She took the next step with a stumble. The one after that with speed. The sooner she put some distance between herself and this stupid chicken’s egg of a building, the sooner she could calm down and think.

  There had to be another way to boost the business. A long-forgotten Hockney painting lurking in a basement. A selection of Cartier jewels hiding in a box of junk at a car boot sale. Perhaps she should make her first stop a newsagent’s and buy a lottery ticket. It would give her better odds.

  Pushing her knuckles against her mouth, Lottie blinked away the film of moisture blurring her vision and made every step careful. Her day was already ruined. No need to add insult to injury by falling down the stairs.

  Then a shout came from behind her. ‘Lottie! Wait up a second…’

  Oh he wasn’t, was he? Lottie increased her pace, hitching her dress up a couple of inches to gain extra swing. The world would just have to suffer her thighs. Escape was the priority now. She had to get out of this pit of humiliation before she howled like a baby. Or worse.

  ‘I said wait!’ He was at her side a heartbeat later, spinning in front of her and blocking her path a half breath after that. His bulk made a neat side step impossible, and made worse inevitable.

  Her hands shot up. Met the firm, well muscled wall of his chest. The heat of his skin soaked into her palms. For a moment, Lottie couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t do anything but stare at her pale silver nails, her fingers spread like starfish over his broad, hard chest.

  Then she ripped her hands away. Cotton that fine should not be allowed, especially not in the vicinity of pecs that well defined.

  She dropped one hand to her hip and worked ‘infuriated’ to a level best described as spectacular. ‘Do you mind?’ How dare he make her touch him up like that? How dare he stand there, all height and suit and hard, taut muscle? The tense gleam in his bright blue eyes only served to increase the tension stiffening her spine. ‘What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see you’re in my way?’

  ‘You walked off before we could finish our conversation.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Lottie snapped back. ‘I thought I’d made it clear that we were done.’

  He turned his head to the side, pulled in a breath, then fixed his gaze on her. Pinned her to the spot with it, in fact. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘I was acting like a creep. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Wow.’ Lottie gripped the stair rail. ‘Just…wow. Are you serious?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘So this is what you do when t
he sleaze doesn’t work? Tell women you didn’t mean it, and then they fall into bed with you anyway?’

  He rubbed a large hand across the back of his neck. ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Oh. So what do they do? Jump?’

  ‘I’m usually glad they’ve gone.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’

  ‘Hardly. Where are you going exactly?’

  ‘Back to work.’ Her stomach churned at the thought of it, and she gave an involuntary whimper.

  One dark brow rose upwards. ‘Oh. And where’s that?’

  Nowhere there was any point telling him about. ‘I’d love to stand here discussing this, but I’m afraid I have things to do,’ Lottie managed, her emotions tumbling. He was like Jekyll and Hyde. The only consistent thing was his undeniable attractiveness and her response to it, and she’d made enough of a fool of herself for one day. She forced herself to move down another step.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he said, slipping in front of her for the second time. ‘At least give me a chance to explain.’

  Lottie blinked. ‘You don’t need to stand in the way. I’m not going to run off. Not in these heels.’

  ‘Running off would be a bad idea.’ He glanced down at her feet. ‘I think I’ll come with you, make sure you don’t trip on the stairs. Unless, of course, you’d rather rejoin the conference?’

  ‘No.’ A shudder worked its way through her body. ‘No, I really don’t want to go back there.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’

  The stairs weren’t steep, but Lottie set her hand firmly on the hand rail, her legs as trustworthy as a tube station pickpocket. ‘You made yourself perfectly clear, Mr Blakemore,’ she said, keeping her gaze firmly on the floor, on the shining steel edge of the million steps that spiralled away in front of her. ‘I got the message.’

  He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘I guess you did. Can I ask you something?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Why were you at the conference?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Networking.’

  ‘And how did that work out for you?’

  ‘Disastrously.’ Lottie forced the word out, her left foot hovering over the next step. ‘I can honestly tell you it was the worst idea I’ve had in months. And I’m saying that as someone who bought an electric home waxing kit in the January sales.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s network. I own clubs—12 in total, shortly to be 13. My new place opens in Mayfair in a month.’

  ‘That’s a pretty classy location.’

  ‘Believe it or not, I’m a pretty classy guy. Now it’s your turn.’

  Lottie pulled in a breath. ‘What is this?’ she asked, flattening her back against the railing. ‘Are you a twin, or do you have some sort of personality disorder? Because I could swear the guy I met before was a total sleazoid, and you’re almost human.’

  He had the decency to blush, highlighting those sharp cheekbones, making his eyes look even more intense. It looked good on him. She wished it didn’t.

  ‘You know who I am,’ he said, matter of fact. ‘It goes without saying you know my mother is Marlene Blakemore. The problem with having a famous parent is that you become a commodity. People use me to get to her, women especially. And nothing scares them off quicker than the suggestion of a dirty fumble in a cleaning cupboard, unless of course they want a fumble in a cleaning cupboard so they can sell that story.’

  Lottie followed the logic of this in shocked disbelief. ‘Did it ever occur to you that a woman might want a fumble in a cleaning cupboard for another reason?’

  Those baby blues flashed. ‘Such as?’

  This was ridiculous. ‘I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Either way, I didn’t come here so I could have sex with you in a cleaning cupboard. It was nice to meet you, Mr Blakemore. I suggest you see a therapist before you try talking to a woman again though.’

  And then he did something unexpected. He smiled. He could wipe out whole civilisations with that smile, she thought, as her knees reacted to it, despite her brain screaming at them not to. It was wide and slightly lopsided, and set perfect little creases into his cheeks. A million-dollar smile, taken off the big screen and put right in front of her. How any woman was supposed to remain upright when faced with that was beyond her, but she managed it. Just.

  ‘So why are you here?’ he pressed, digging blunt fingers into the knot of his tie and easing it free. ‘Other than for the food, obviously.’

  ‘You won’t like the answer,’ Lottie told him.

  His perfectly sculpted jaw hardened, and all traces of that smile vanished. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think I would.’

  ‘I work for Spencer’s Auction House,’ she said, the words unexpectedly painful. ‘We…I heard a rumour that your mother is looking to sell a few items. I came here to try to find out if it’s true.’

  ‘And if it is?’

  ‘Then I’d try to persuade you to get her to sell through us. Obviously we both know I’d be wasting my time.’

  Tightening her grip on the handrail, Lottie moved to the side and negotiated the next step. And the next one.

  One large hand locked onto her right shoulder and stopped her. ‘Just tell me one thing. How did you find out?’

  If he slid his index finger a fraction further in, he’d be able to feel the pulse in her neck. And no way did he need to know how fast it was going. Lottie pulled in a sharp breath and desperately willed herself to lie. She failed. ‘Marlene had a meeting with a specialist at Christie’s last Thursday. I know someone who works for them. He talked.’

  The pressure from his hand increased. ‘So you thought you’d put his job at risk by acting on that information.’

  Guilt poked her, but she refused to let it in. ‘This is a cut-throat business, Mr Blakemore. Was Spencer’s under consideration?’

  His hand dropped away. ‘Not that I’m aware of, no.’

  ‘And why would it be? The business is a mess. The building needs a six-figure makeover for starters.’ Awkwardly negotiating another step of the endlessly curling staircase, Lottie pressed herself tightly against the side to let a harassed looking woman in a black trouser suit dash past. ‘We’re losing staff hand over fist, and most of the stuff coming through the door isn’t even fit for the charity shop. We’re hardly what you’d call high end. Not any more.’ She huffed out a sigh. It had hurt to put those facts into words and say them out loud. ‘I’ve never been to a conference before, and I totally screwed it up. I called you a creep, for goodness’s sake. What sort of an idiot does that?’

  ‘I was acting like a creep.’

  ‘That’s beside the point. I should have handled it. But did I? No. How am I ever going to survive in business if I can’t handle a bit of inappropriate flirting?’

  ‘I’m probably going to regret this,’ he said, ‘but come for a drink with me and I’ll tell you.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘This is your place?’ Lottie ducked her head under the curtain of plastic sheeting that he held up, and stepped through into a vast space, illuminated by huge electric spotlights that were dotted around on the floor.

  It was part space ship, part building site but she could see what the finished product would be. A sparkling, futuristic centre of hedonism. A little shiver tiptoed its way down her spine as he followed her through.

  ‘Two floors,’ he said, ‘plus VIP areas. Four separate bars. Capacity is about 1500. I don’t like to overcrowd the place. Keep it lower, makes it feel more exclusive, more intimate.’

  ‘Fifteen hundred is intimate?’

  ‘In a place this size, yes.’

  Lottie tucked her bag under her arm as she moved slowly into the space, crossing what she assumed would be the dance floor. Quiet echoed around them, and she wondered why he had brought her here. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him standing by the entrance, hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze intent on her.

  She couldn’t fig
ure him out. But she wanted to. ‘So where’s this drink you offered me?’ She picked her way through a maze of paint pots, toes burning, and tried not to wince. It hadn’t been so bad on the tube, where she’d been lucky enough to get a seat, but her shoes were now on serious overtime. She’d give anything for a pair of trainers right now.

  Another step forward, and an arrow of pain shot up her leg and her ankle flexed dangerously. Time to give up on trying to look good, Lottie decided. It wasn’t as if she could impress him anyway. Bending down, she fixed her palm to the heel of her left shoe and was about to slip it off when a hand settled on her shoulder.

  ‘Why do women always take their shoes off in a nightclub?’ he asked, and there was a soft stroke of amusement in his voice. ‘It’s asking for trouble.’

  Lottie straightened up, found herself side by side with him. The sleeve of his beautifully cut charcoal-grey suit brushed her arm, and she felt the touch like a jolt of electricity. Was this the good twin she was talking to now, or the bad one? ‘Because our feet hurt,’ she told him, trying not to wince.

  ‘You need to keep them on. There could be all sorts on the floor. Nails, that sort of thing. And it won’t look good if I get an onsite injury before the place has even opened.’

  ‘I guess not.’

  She glanced around, trying to find something close by that she could sit on. Anything. On the far side of the space, what she assumed would be the bar snaked along the wall, the shelves behind it empty, underneath a network of dangling wires. A couple of plastic chairs sat near one end, but they seemed a mile away.

  Lottie bit the inside of her cheek, and tried to figure out what to do for the best. Maintaining her dignity was high on her list of priorities, but she wasn’t sure if she could. It had been manageable back at City Hall, when she had been too busy being cross to fully acknowledge her awareness of him. But here, in this empty cavern, there was no place to hide from her thoughts. Her naughty, indecent thoughts.