Once A Bad Girl Page 5

  Slowly, painstakingly so, Lottie eased herself off the mattress and tiptoed to the doorway, scanning the floorboards for her knickers. No sign.

  Screwing up her eyes, she hid her breasts with her hands, as if it made her less naked somehow. If she hung around too long he might wake up, and she’d rather go commando than deal with a morning after conversation. It would be too easy for him to talk her back into bed. She couldn’t risk it.

  She almost lost her footing in her haste to get to the door. Why didn’t the man have carpets? All this bare wood was totally unnecessary. And loud. It took twice as long as it should have to reach the bottom of the stairs, by which time she had her bra and her shoes. Dress? She scanned the entrance hall, spotted it hiding in a dark corner.

  Cold air goose-bumped her skin as she scooped it up. She should be at home right now, her body priming itself for the call of her alarm. Not playing clothes hunt in the house of a man she barely knew.

  Into the kitchen. The tiles were cold against her feet, her heart pounding fiercely as she reached for the light switch, bathing the long, airy space in clean, bright light. Her bag sat on the table exactly where she’d left it, it’s neat and tidy state a snarky little reminder of the mess in her head. It made her want to scream. What was she doing? Come on Lottie, he deserves better than this.

  ‘What else am I supposed to do?’ she muttered, every second that ticked by winding her nerves closer to breaking point. She grabbed her bag, jostled the contents and ran to the door. Buses would be running. Quick fly by her flat, shower, change, then straight on to work. Achieve that, and everything would be safely back to normal. She didn’t want to get involved with anyone, especially not someone who had any connection to the auction house, no matter how tenuous. If this stayed as a one-night thing, it meant she hadn’t really messed up.

  And she was more likely to prove the existence of fairies than convince herself of that. Her fingers shook. The bolt on the front door fought her every step of the way. She battled for control, wished desperately for silence as the brass bar thumped to the side and she swung the door open.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  Lottie shrieked, her heart accelerating at a million miles an hour. ‘Josh!’ She skittered to a halt on the top step. ‘You frightened the life out of me.’ Bright white jersey boxers took him past naked but left him nowhere near decent, and his hair was stuck out at all sorts of crazy angles. He looked delicious.

  ‘Leaving without saying goodbye.’ He folded his arms, leaned against the door jamb and stared her down with those stunning blue eyes. ‘You’re a naughty girl, Lottie Spencer. I expected better of you.’

  ‘I…I didn’t want to wake you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s five in the morning. And you don’t need me hanging around annoying you. I’m not one of those women who gets all clingy the morning after.’ He didn’t look convinced, so she tried again. ‘You’ve probably got loads to do today anyway.’

  He unfolded his arms, then took the edge of the doorframe with a white-knuckle grip that made his pecs flex and her mouth go dry. ‘No, not really.’

  The casual tone was completely at odds with the angry heat burning in his bright blue eyes. Flames of desire licked up her thighs, her breasts, scorching her very core. She ached. From him. For him.

  Lottie pulled in a lungful of crisp, early-morning air, tinged with the intoxicating scent of still-warm-from-bed male. ‘I know how this looks. I just…’ How could she explain it? How could she make him understand? ‘We shouldn’t have slept together.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll forgive you for trying to sneak out on me. I wouldn’t normally. But it’ll cost you.’

  Lottie cut him a wary look from under her lashes. ‘Cost me?’

  He crooked his finger and beckoned her closer. Then lowered his head, put his mouth on hers, and plundered. He kissed her until her bones dissolved and blood thundered in her ears. He kissed her until her knees gave way and he had to hold her up like a battered rag doll. He kissed her until she couldn’t see straight any more, and then until she couldn’t see at all. Then, and only then, did he let her go.

  Josh watched her leave, his gaze flicking side to side in time with the quickstep sway of her hips. He rubbed a hand over his face as she turned the corner and disappeared out of sight. He should have called her a cab. But that would have meant her hanging around, and then they’d have talked themselves back into bed, and it was pretty clear she didn’t want to go there.

  At least she hadn’t managed to sneak out without him knowing about it. His mind wandered back to the last time that had happened, and a cool shiver zipped down his spine. He’d thought, for the first time in a very long time that he’d met someone he could trust.

  What the hell did it matter? He’d crossed the line, and now he’d have to deal with the consequences, whatever they turned out to be. Only this time, he’d genuinely thought Lottie was different. He’d thought they’d connected. He’d obviously lost his mind. All last night had done was remind him how much he liked sex, and why he never, ever let his guard down. She’d used him, and he’d let her.

  Rolling his shoulders loose, Josh decided some self-flagellation in the form of a boiling-hot shower was what he needed. He was about to head back inside when the dense 5ft shrub at the side of the steps gave a big shiver. Cat, most likely. His neighbour had a toilet brush of a ginger tom that thought it was a Rottweiler and approached the rest of the world from that deluded angle. The bush gave one almighty shake that set its thin leaves dancing.

  Time to get out of the way.

  Picking up her battered desktop phone, Lottie dialled the number for the answering machine for the sixth time in an hour, the 15th time that day, and the 75th time since she’d walked away from Josh Blakemore’s front door a week ago. She doodled a little cartoon drawing of the ginger cat that had followed her down the street as she’d walked away from that door, gave it stripes and a bottlebrush tail, and zapped it with a streak of lightning. Kapow.

  No messages. Swinging round in her creaky desk chair, she twiddled her bright green pencil between her fingers and rested the receiver on her shoulder long enough to hit redial.

  Could it be some sort of technical problem? She wasn’t entirely sure how these things worked, but they were electronic, which meant that they went wrong all the time. Yes, that had to be it. Alone in her poky office in the chilly basement of the auction house, it was easy to convince herself as she counted the splotches of black mould decorating the top right corner of the once-magnolia wall that this was all some terrible mistake.

  After all, didn’t her photocopier explode at least twice a week? The printer drank so much ink she was thinking of sending it to Printers Anonymous meetings, and as for the coffee maker…

  Who was she trying to kid? Sooner or later she had to accept the fact that Marlene Blakemore wasn’t going to call, and neither was her son. She had to kill the hope still lingering in her belly, stop hiding the crack in the window with a spider plant and stop dreaming about Josh Blakemore naked.

  No time like the present. She slammed the receiver back into the cradle, put her elbows on the desktop, put her head in her hands, and felt quite sick. She let it burn at her stomach for all of a minute, then she straightened her spine, pulled her Rolodex forward and started to flick.

  Marlene Blakemore had been a long shot and she refused to take up permanent residence on planet pity. What she wanted was a shiny new office, one that smelled of fresh flowers and warm jam doughnuts. One with under-floor heating, where ice formed on the outside of the window in winter, not the inside.

  She flicked through a couple more cards. Posey Pennington, at the antiques shop on the corner? She’d probably have more luck shooting for the moon. Roger McAllister might be able to help, but she’d have to endure one of his wife’s legendary cremated dinners. Her stomach hurt just thinking about it.

  Pressing her fingers against her eyes, Lott
ie fought the sting. She’d been on the edge of tears for the past seven days, restless, nervy, strung up with tension. She hated it. She needed air. And food. She shoved the Rolodex to the back of her desk, knocking it round a couple of inches. Her gaze fell onto the name and number. She sank back into her chair. Possible. Not good. But possible.

  And possible was good enough. She picked up the phone and dialled the number. Barry agreed to meet her for lunch before she’d even got the words out. As long as she managed to make it clear that the only bed they’d ever share was in his imagination, everything would be fine. She felt pretty horrible about it, after trying to poach Marlene, but she was that desperate, and it seemed that using people was what she was about these days, anyway.

  Lottie gave her office a routine once over, locked the door behind her and headed upstairs. The door to her mother’s first-floor office was open as always, and the room beyond looked the same as always. Black-and-white photos showing the auction house in its primary incarnation as a Victorian mill dotted the butter-coloured walls, the furniture was a hotchpotch of carved rosewood and midnight-blue upholstery that was one overenthusiastic bottom away from dead.

  Lottie eyed the staff rota pinned on the wall next to the door. Her heart sank when she spotted another stretch of spaces wiped clean. Another member of staff sent off to the job centre. ‘Mum, I’m popping out for lunch. I won’t be long.’

  Helen Spencer sat on her favourite velvet armchair in the corner of her office, defiantly petite and fiercely blonde. A pile of glossy magazines balanced on her knee. She lifted her glasses onto the top of her head and gave Lottie a warm smile. ‘There you are. Have you been busy this morning?’

  Lottie had the weird feeling it was a trick question. ‘Quite busy. I finished the paperwork for the Smith account, and settled last month’s cleaning bill.’

  Helen fiddled with the drape of her gold jersey cardigan. ‘I’ve been trying to get through to your office phone for the past half hour, but it was permanently engaged.’

  Odd. Her dad never ventured down to her office, but her mum wafted in and out several fragrant times a day. Lottie decided to play it safe. ‘The phones are probably acting up. Did you want me for something?’

  Her mother rolled her eyes. ‘Yes. And for goodness’ sake, Charlotte, don’t linger in the doorway and fidget. You’ve got a visitor.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Who is it? I’m not expecting anyone.’ She heard the familiar moany creak of the button-back leather chair that sat on the other side of her mother’s office, and her heart jumped to triple time as a tall male figure sauntered into view.

  ‘Hello, Lottie.’

  Oh, dear lord. What was he doing here? Chaos reigned in her head, as a super-powered blush hit her cheeks, her neck. ‘Josh….’ she flustered, remembering a second too late that her mother was watching. Her pulse kicked up, right up, as her mouth went dry. He was wearing low-slung designer jeans with strategically placed rips, a second-skin black t-shirt emblazoned with ‘Scarlett, Miami’ in neon pink and trainers that looked like they’d trekked through the Himalayas and barely lived to tell the tale, and he looked just as gorgeously handsome as she’d remembered. He also looked darkly, alarmingly annoyed.

  Lottie swallowed down the brick in her throat as he stared down at her. ‘I…I didn’t expect to see you again.’

  ‘Didn’t expect to? Or didn’t want to?’

  Lottie could see Helen watching her with interest. She steeled herself with a deep breath and forced out a smile, a professional smile and wondered what on earth was going on. ‘How are things?’

  ‘They’ve been better.’

  His blue eyes were all ice. She didn’t know what his problem was, only that he had a big one. She had to think quickly. ‘Did you want to schedule a meeting?’ she hedged. ‘I’m going for lunch now, but I’m free later.’ Every second she spent looking at him brought another erotic, sensual image into her head. She was trying her best not to picture him naked, but she wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, holding up a rolled-up magazine, ‘I haven’t had lunch yet. Think I’ll tag along.’

  No! It got a little harder to breathe. She could not have Josh and Barry within 10ft of each other. ‘I’m only going to a place over the road. It’s not great. More of a greasy spoon than a restaurant, really. I’m not even sure the kitchen is clean, which is fine for me, because I’m used to it and I only have the salad. But you might want to give it a miss.’

  ‘I’ve got guts of iron.’ He moved forward, shepherding her out of the office. He got as far as the doorway, then turned. ‘It was nice to meet you, Mrs Spencer.’

  ‘You too, Mr Blakemore,’ Helen said airily. ‘Thanks for the advice on the cruise.’

  Cruise? What cruise? Lottie craned her neck, tried to see past him, but it was like trying to look over a 6ft wall, one with minty breath and big fists. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she whispered, feeling a horrible combination of attraction and arousal and fear.

  One hand met the small of her back and pushed her towards the double doors that served as the entrance to the auction house. ‘You tell me.’

  Lottie opened her canvas tote and pulled out her sun hat as she walked out into the fresh air. As soon as she heard the door close behind them, she spun on her heel and made herself face him. ‘Sorry to have to point this out, but I’m really not that smart. So if you could stop growling down my neck for a minute and explain yourself, I’d appreciate it.’ She slapped the hat on her head and adjusted the brim so that at least she didn’t have to look him in the eye. ‘Did you get out of bed on the wrong side this morning or something?’

  ‘No,’ he fired back. ‘I got into bed with the wrong damn woman. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Or was their offer just too good to refuse?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t cry the innocent with me, Charlotte.’

  ‘I never pretended to be innocent. And I think the only things I cried were ‘yes’ and ‘please’ and ‘more’. And that’s not explaining yourself.’ She felt suddenly very hurt and shaken, shocked by the implication of his words. ‘Do you regret having sex with me? Is that what this is about?’

  He fell silent.

  ‘You do, don’t you? I can’t believe you felt the need to ambush me at work just so you could tell me that.’ She turned on her heel, and took a diagonal pathway across the road to Giovanni’s, the little Italian across the road from the auction house, desperate to get away from him.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t take the hint. Lottie couldn’t believe it when he followed her across the road, sticking far too close for comfort.

  ‘And don’t,’ she snapped as they were waved to a table under the green-and-white striped awning and given laminated menus, ‘call me Charlotte.’ She yanked out her chair and dropped onto it, then folded her arms and glared at him.

  ‘You set me up,’ he said, glaring right back.

  Lottie blinked. ‘Set you up for what?’

  ‘Check the damn magazine.’

  He slapped it on the table in front of her.

  ‘I don’t suppose it will make any difference if I tell you exactly where you can stick that,’ she said, waving at it.

  His only response was to lift one dark brow.

  Lottie shook her head and smoothed the magazine flat with the edge of her hand. He was, she decided, the most pig-headed human being she’d ever had the misfortune to meet. ‘You read Guilty Pleasures?’ Josh did not strike her as their target market. He was more…Men’s Health.

  He scowled. ‘I do when I get a call to tell me I’m in it.’

  Confused, Lottie touched the pad of her thumb to her tongue then started to flick. ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll find it.’

  He folded his arms, making tanned biceps pop, and she hated herself for reacting to it. After all, hadn’t he just made it clear that he regretted sleeping with her? />
  And then she saw it. Badly focussed, the colours muted, but the image unmistakeable. It was Josh’s doorstep. And Josh. And her, wrapped around him like blueberry sauce on vanilla ice cream.

  She stared at the photo, her mind a whirlpool of confusion as arousal rose up inside her, hot and sweet, her body instantly remembering how it had felt to have his hands on her like that, to have hers on his naked chest, the warm smell of his skin, the slide of his tongue over hers.

  She picked at the edge of the page, hating him for tainting her memory of it. ‘That dress makes my bum look huge,’ she said quietly, not wanting to ask any of the questions burning her insides, feeling hideously violated. Who had taken the photo? Had someone been spying on them?

  One large hand slapped down on the table. ‘Your bum is not the problem here.’ He reached across, tipped her chin up and forced her to meet his gaze. ‘Did you set this up, Lottie? Tell me the truth. Did you arrange for a photographer to wait outside my house?’

  ‘You brought the magazine! You’re the one who seems to know all about it! I could ask you the same question!’

  For a moment, they glared at each other, like two boxers waiting for the bell to sound so they could start throwing punches. What was it about this man that cranked her emotions up to the max? Whatever it was—anxiety, attraction, anger—when he was around, she got terrifyingly close to out of control.

  ‘So you didn’t arrange for a photographer to wait in the bushes by my front door?’ He pinned her in her seat with that fierce, blue-eyed stare.

  ‘Why on earth would I do that? Are you completely insane?’

  ‘Apparently,’ he said, beckoning the waiter over. ‘What’s good here?’ He listened, then ordered an extra-large pepperoni pizza, two rounds of garlic bread, a bowl of olives and a lemonade, not diet. ‘And a salad for the lady.’

  Lottie couldn’t hold in her temper. ‘So that’s it? You turn up at the auction house, tell me you’re sorry you slept with me, accuse me of being some sort of…paparazzi monger, and then order pizza and it’s all forgotten?’