Harper's Fate

By F.C. Clark

Eat me...
In six short weeks Kate Harper’s life totally changes: a chance meeting with a handsome stranger and a new job working for the powerful Luke Sutton ignites a whirlwind of passion and sets Kate’s life on a path beyond her control.
But this is not the story you think it will be. As the mysterious and domineering Luke Sutton comes to terms with the idea that Kate might not be what he expected, new secrets come to light that will change both of them forever.
Kate and Luke’s sexual journey begins on a rainy day in London, but what lies ahead of them is far more challenging than either of them expect. Lies, money, Russian ancestors and a secret Military background irrevocably change both of their lives, but is it for the better?
They are worlds apart. Can their turbulent relationship survive? Follow their exhilarating journey...
Unpredictable, impulsive and with exciting twists which set this book apart from your typical love story. ‘His past has to save her future....’ Follow Kate and Luke’s story in the explosive sequel, Harper’s Fortune.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Nov 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781789012347

F.C. Clark

F.C. Clark lives in Essex with her husband and three children. Her interest in writing began three years ago and gaining confidence has been her biggest hurdle. Now she has no intention of stopping writing stories that make you laugh and cry, with characters that stay with you long after the last word.

Book preview

HARPER’S

FATE

Eat Me...

F. C. Clark

Copyright © 2018 F. C. Clark

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781789012347

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

Dad

This is for you.

Contents

Acknowledgments

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

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12

13

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15

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27

Acknowledgments

I have so many people to thank for helping me through the hardest journey. Firstly, my best friend and mentor – my husband. The day I told him that I wanted to write was the beginning of his relentless encouragement – thank you my darling. My mum and my late dad who helped me with so many details that will stay with me forever, and not forgetting my three babies – my world – as well as Emma, Kira, Hannah and Tawne. Jackie, my best-girl tonic and Lorraine, my toughest critic and pillar of strength. EKC – I am indebted to you girls forever. FMC – thank you and sorry! Lastly, Jane Hammett, who has helped me more than she realises.

FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE

80 KILOMETRES EAST OF ST PETERSBURG

I slowly raise my head. An intense pain at my temples commands my body to wake. My eyes attempt to blink, but can’t. I’m in complete darkness. I try to speak, but no sound passes my lips. Panic and fear begin to swirl within me. The feelings increase when I try to move my arms. They remain tightly locked at my side, and my legs are restrained at the ankles. Holy shit, I’m tied to something. All I can move is the tips of my fingers. I’m tied to a chair…

Tears start to fall as I realise I have placed myself in grave danger. Why would he do this? I struggle to believe that my father would want to cause me pain. My thoughts are interrupted by a muffled bang. My heart frantically beats against my chest as I hear the door open…

1

SIX WEEKS EARLIER...

BURLINGTON GARDENS, LONDON, W1

‘Oh, crap.’ I hold the two forgotten white shirts.

‘Is there a problem, Miss Harper?’

Evidently, my words were louder than I thought. I turn my head in the direction of Mr Jones, as he peers at me with raised brows, deftly manipulating fabric around a mannequin.

‘I would say a situation – definitely not a problem.’

I continue to make our three o’clock tea. Within seconds, Mr Jones arrives at the cutting table. Undeniably, he’s a creature of habit and a man of exquisite refinement. I often wonder if this is due to his age; I guess he’s in his early sixties. Jones Tailors is an established family business located in a side street just off Savile Row, providing handmade suits and shirts for a list of private clientele.

‘So the situation is under control?’ Mr Jones removes his glasses, and passes me my cup and saucer.

‘Yes… Trust me, I would never let you down.’ I offer him a mock salute.

‘Are you leaving me with a calamity, Kate?’ He looks at me whilst drinking his tea.

‘Me – never.’ I place my hand over my heart and laugh, although we’re both aware that disasters – or calamities, as he refers to them – do occasionally follow me. ‘Actually, I’ve realised that two white shirts were missed off the delivery. They’re both for Sutton Global Industries.’ I glance at the order form. ‘The postcode is SW6. It can’t be that far from Pete’s Bar. I’ll make a detour and drop them off later.’

Mr Jones sits silently absorbing my words. Even though our time together has been relatively short, he’s grown accustomed to my overactive mouth – one of my many negative traits.

‘Kate, I trust you. I have no fear that you will leave me without any outstanding problems.’ He continues to drink his tea and consume my homemade fruitcake.

‘So, tomorrow is D-day … are you ready for me to leave? I can’t believe it’s been six months. I hope maternity leave hasn’t affected Sam; I do have standards for her to live up to.’ I laugh.

‘Kate, your standards are unreachable.’ As ever, his gaze is humorous and warm.

‘You always have the perfect answer. I’m going to miss you.’ The warm tea reaches my lips, alleviating the tightening sensation in my throat.

I place my elbows on the table and savour our penultimate afternoon together, ensuring I store the moment in my memory box.

* * *

I change from black-heeled court shoes into white Converse trainers. On this occasion comfort wins over style. I glance in the mirror. It now reflects a mishmash outfit. A knee-length white cotton dress and black fitted blazer – even with the change of footwear, it works. I run my fingers through my long blonde hair, trying to loosen the matted strands; a futile exercise as it needs a wash. My dark, tired eyes and pale complexion stare back at me. I sigh, mentally counting down the days until I go to France with the girls.

* * *

The early-evening London streets are crowded with people trying to get home. Traffic is terrible. I rest my back against the shop window whilst typing in the address of Sutton Global to my satnav. The dot bleeps. Apparently I have a twenty-five-minute walk ahead of me.

After a long walk, my phone tells me I’m close to my destination; however, it fails to inform me of the imminent downpour. From nowhere, the weather changes from sunshine to grey and overcast, and the heavens open. I’m totally unprepared. Note to self: buy a bloody umbrella. Knowing that I’m on the right road and only a few feet from my destination, I place my phone in the side pocket of my bag, lock my arms protectively round the shirt box, and speed up.

Stopping at the kerb, I raise my head and view the colossal glass tower opposite. Rainwater trickles down my cheeks, which is truly testing my waterproof make-up. Checking for traffic, I dart across the road. From the corner of my eye I view a car heading towards me. I leap towards the kerb but, not being an Olympic athlete, I fall. My knees make contact with the hard road and I receive a dousing of water from the speeding car. Shocked, I stand and regain my balance. ‘You fucking idiot!’ I try to straighten my white dress, which is soaked and clings to my body. ‘This is not my bloody day.’

Heading towards the large revolving doors, I try once again to readjust my dress, which is pointless, as the cotton sticks to my legs. Looking around the modern building I appear to be invisible, which pleases me. I scan the area and head for the reception. The man seated at the desk has his head bowed. I clear my throat. Eventually the man makes eye contact.

‘Hi… I wonder if you could help me. I have a parcel for Sutton Global Industries.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Roberts. I trust you are well?’

I hear a calm, yet authoritative, voice from directly behind me. Warm breath glides across the back of my neck.

‘We appear to be heading in the same direction. Please allow me to show this young lady the way.’ He speaks again.

The husky baritone voice causes goose bumps to cover my skin. Crap – I hope he hasn’t noticed. Why does my body give out signals I can’t control, even if I want to?

The security guard nods. ‘Please write your name on this badge and return it when you exit the building.’ He hands me an entry pass. I write my name on the badge and clip it to the lapel of my wet blazer.

I run my hands through my hair. At no point does this help re-style my wet, dirty hair. Inhaling and blowing out through pursed lips, I turn, holding my damp box tightly. Immediately I’m met by a man, the man with the heart-stopping voice, who is now holding a gate open next to a security turnstile.

Wow… You have to be kidding me. Is this really happening? In front of me stands the most drop-dead handsome man I have ever seen. Oh, great. Just what I need today, of all days. I remain still, absorbing the view, for far too long. My head pleads with my body: move, goddamn it, you’re making yourself look ridiculous. Suddenly I realise where I am. I begin to move in the direction of the opened gate and the stranger.

‘Thank you.’ Amazingly, I speak and walk. It’s a miracle that two of my motor skills work. I walk past the man, my head low, eyes forward.

‘Follow me. We need the top floor,’ he says, his strong, sexy baritone voice filtering through my body like a shockwave. A voice like his, plus looks like that; it can only cause the female species to melt. Clearly, I prove this to be an accurate theory.

I follow him towards the lift, not wanting to look at his face, and yet I raise my eyes slightly as he presses the button, allowing me to see his incredible hands, which are very manly and I’m sure very useful – Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? Note to self: I need a boyfriend.

I feel the need to speak. Silence is not usually an option for me.

‘I hope I’m not putting you to any trouble?’ I manage a few words and catch a glimpse of his eyes, which scan me from head to toe. Holy shit, they knock me off balance. Perhaps keeping quiet and keeping my eyes down is the best course of action.

With no time to offer any further interaction, the lift arrives and the doors open. We both stand aside, allowing people to exit. He places his hand tentatively on my lower back, gesturing with his other hand for me to enter. His touch makes me jolt. Agitated, I swiftly move to the far corner of the lift, gaining some much-needed space. Holy shit, what is wrong with me?

I watch him closely for the first time as he presses the lift button. He must be in his early thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, with short dark hair that matches his black suit perfectly. The top button of his crisp white shirt is undone, revealing a small amount of tanned skin – just enough to increase my heart rate.

I try to refrain from staring as he turns to face me, but I can’t tear myself away. Jesus H. Christ, this man is stunning. His facial structure is chiselled and defined. If you could draw a perfect man, I’m sure this would be it. He has dark, enigmatic eyes that bore straight through me, causing a flow of sensations to my groin – bloody hell, I need some self-discipline. I know I’m blushing.

‘You look extremely wet,’ he says, his eyes fixed on mine. This doesn’t help me gain composure. I watch him as he reads the security badge attached to my lapel.

‘Is it OK to call you Miss Harper?’ He makes eye contact, wearing a smirk or a grin, I’m not sure which. Is this the face of a man who knows the effect he has on women?

‘Yes, that would be the rain – it makes you wet,’ I respond in a cutting tone. ‘Also, I had the pleasure of encountering a very large puddle.’ I’m fully aware that sarcasm escapes my mouth far too often; another function I can’t control. My list of malfunctions appears to be growing.

He tilts his head to one side. I’m guessing he’s not amused by my response. He continues to stare, which unnerves me.

‘Oh, and call me Kate.’ This time I smile, not wanting to appear rude.

‘You can call me Luke,’ he responds in a mocking tone. ‘You seem to have cut your knee.’ His eyes fall towards my leg, whilst his hand slips inside his black suit jacket, retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Please, take this.’

‘Thank you.’ I take the unexpected offering from his hand. ‘I managed to hit the kerb with my knee whilst trying to avoid the idiot that soaked me.’ I look down and notice blood running down my leg. Yet again, I’m looking shit-hot in front of a man who could be a model. Great – my day just keeps getting better.

I manage to soak up most of the blood on his beautiful white hanky. Thankfully, the lift comes to a stop and the doors open. He gestures for me to exit.

‘This way – follow me. What delivery do you have?’

‘Oh – shirts from Jones Tailors.’

‘Personal service?’

‘Something like that.’

We arrive at a large reception area with huge silver lettering: SUTTON GLOBAL INDUSTRIES. The office is spacious, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of London. We reach an empty desk, maybe a secretary’s desk. Beyond that is a set of double doors. Once again he holds the door open and gestures for me to enter. I’m now beginning to wonder if he’s actually a door attendant – albeit a very hot door attendant.

The office we enter is beautiful and vast, with rich dark wood furniture, masculine slate flooring and stone-coloured walls covered with monitors. I can’t imagine why one person would need that amount of technology. Mind you, I’ve barely mastered the iPhone.

He walks around a large desk and sits in a chair. Oh shit, he’s obviously the MD or someone important.

‘I believe you have a box of shirts for me.’

Without a doubt, he understands the effect he has; not only the effect of his brooding good looks, but also the sexual aura he exudes. I sense an air of arrogance. He picks up the phone on his desk.

‘I need the first aid box and two coffees.’ His request is delivered without a please or a thank you. He continues to glare at me. ‘I believe your knee is in need of medical attention.’

‘I’m fine – thank you.’ I scowl at him.

Contemplatively, he rubs his jaw. ‘I do have an ulterior motive.’

He stands and saunters around the table to join me, removing the box from my arms, placing it on the desk. My eyes follow him as he moves towards the large sofas. The view is breathtaking; not only the view of London, but also the view of his sexy body.

‘Come… sit down.’ Once again, he gestures.

‘I need to leave.’

‘Nonsense, you have blood on your leg. I did say I have an ulterior motive.’

I make my way towards the large sofa, concerned that my dress is soaking. Clearly, I have officially entered the Miss Wet T-shirt competition, only I’m in a white dress. I perch on the edge of the sofa, not getting too close, for my own sanity – distance is my only form of defence.

He sits, one leg resting on the other, with his hands relaxed on his lap.

‘I do have a confession.’ Bloody hell, he’s very self-assured.

A knock on the door disrupts his confession. What does he have to confess? Unless there’s a problem with the delivery…

‘Enter.’ He speaks whilst keeping his eyes unnervingly locked on me.

An attractive dark-haired woman enters the office with a tray, two cups of coffee and a first aid box. She places it on the table directly in front of us.

He nods at his employee. ‘That will be all, Tanya.’ She exits sharply.

He returns his gaze to me. ‘Milk, sugar?’

‘Oh, just milk, please. Honestly, my knee is fine – there’s no need to go to any trouble. I really should be going; I have to get to work.’ I don’t make eye contact, frightened that I will melt once again, which is bloody ridiculous. Christ, I feel pathetic…

‘Nonsense.’ He places my cup close to me.

‘Thank you.’

‘If I may continue with my confession,’ he says, opening the first aid box and removing an antiseptic wipe and a plaster, ‘I’m the fucking idiot who got you wet, as you so eloquently shouted in the street.’ His dark eyes sparkle; he is clearly pleased with his declaration. ‘That is not entirely true: my driver is the fucking idiot.’ Once again, he produces a smile that sends a shockwave through my body.

He continues to wipe my knee and leg with the antiseptic wipe. I flinch from the sting – and his touch.

Although my body and mind appear paralysed, I give myself a kick up the arse, urging my voice to resume. ‘You have good hearing.’

‘I do believe you shouted very loudly. As yet, my hearing has not failed me.’ He smirks. Wow, this man radiates confidence. Why am I allowing him to intimidate me in a sexual game in which he appears to have the upper hand?

‘I was cross! As you can see, I’m very wet… from the rain.’ I offer him my pissed-off look, whilst trying to hold on to some self-preservation. ‘The puddle incident merely added to my most enjoyable afternoon.’ My scary trait rears its ugly head; I sense babbling about to commence. ‘I wasn’t swearing at you, more at the situation, and I’m one hundred per cent sure your behaviour wouldn’t have been any different from mine.’ I tell myself to stop and breathe. ‘And, more to the point, your driver is employed by you, driving you to work, therefore I think it was your fault.’ I fold my arms; I believe I have made a valid point.

He tilts his head, whilst his dark eyes pin me to my seat. I’m not sure if this is the result of my lucid tongue, or because I’m correct and have put him in his place. Nonetheless, he does seem a little shocked by my response.

‘I can finish cleaning my knee. It’s fine – really it is.’ I convey my words with purpose. I would be able to gain some self-control if he wasn’t bloody touching me.

‘When I start a job, Kate Harper, I like to finish it,’ he replies in his authoritative tone, throwing me off balance. His dark eyes meet mine.

Feeling the need to stop arguing with this stranger, I place the used hanky on the coffee table and reach for my coffee.

I wish I had the same impact on him as he does on me.

‘Your outburst in the street was quite amusing, but it’s not so amusing that you have hurt yourself.’ Do I sense remorse in his voice? ‘You said you’re on your way to work?’

‘I have an evening job at a local bar not far from here.’

He seals the plaster across the wound, using his thumb to smooth into place. At last I am able to move my leg, which he has dressed very well. It leads me to wonder how many other damsels in distress he has rescued.

‘Thank you,’ I respond in a low tone.

‘You’re welcome. Now, would you like a towel for your hair, or to use the bathroom?’ He looks genuinely concerned. As ever, I feel the need to question the virtues of a man who looks shit-hot.

‘I think it will take a lot more than a visit to your bathroom.’ Oh, I wish he could have seen me this morning. ‘I have my work clothes to change into.’ I retrieve my rucksack from the floor and rummage through the contents. Damn – I can only find my jeans; no top. ‘It’s official – I have no brain,’ I mutter to myself, aware that my day is continuing to go downhill.

‘There’s a problem?’ He looks at me, wearing a look of sincerity – I think.

‘No, not really. I’ve left my work T-shirt at home. I’ll grab one from the bar.’ Zipping up my bag, I stand and walk around the coffee table. ‘Thank you for the coffee and the plaster.’ I smile, feeling like a child – it’s been a while since I’ve had my knee dressed.

‘You can’t possibly leave like that.’ He gestures towards my body, from head to toe. ‘You’re soaked… from the rain.’ He raises his brows, humorously repeating my previous statement. ‘You’ll catch pneumonia. I fear a death will harm my reputation…’

He smiles and joins me. He is tall, causing me to raise my head and drink in his beauty. I take a deep breath, inhaling his manly scent. Wow – my body reacts, internally contracting. He is dangerously close.

‘I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you or damage your reputation,’ I eventually reply with my usual lack of filter and far too much sarcasm – it must be nerves; nothing to do with my body, which is overheating.

His eyes light up with my quick fire response. He strides towards a door and disappears. ‘White or blue?’

‘Sorry. I’m not sure I follow you.’ I stand, feeling awkward and a little lost.

‘Shirt… What is your colour preference?’

Clarity arrives. ‘No, it’s fine. I really don’t need to borrow a shirt. Besides, I just dropped off your delivery. I’m guessing no high-street shirts are lurking in your closet.’

‘And what is your point?’ It’s clear to me that people rarely question him.

‘Your shirts cost more money than I earn in a week. They really aren’t suitable – that’s my point. If I damaged it—’ I shake my head. ‘Thank you for the offer, but I must go.’

My legs begin to move. When I’m close to the office door, I feel a hand on my arm. My pulse quickens and my face becomes crimson – for the hundredth time today. I shrug my arm free, frustrated that I can feel such strong sexual tension with a stranger. I turn to face the man who is making me deal with far too many emotions.

‘I insist you take this shirt.’ He holds a beautiful blue shirt. ‘Trust me, I don’t do anything I don’t want to.’ His face is stern. This must be how his employees feel: intimidated and slightly frightened at his austere manner. However, it has a very different effect on me, an intense heat building between my thighs.

I roughly take hold of the shirt.

‘Thank you, but it’s a loan. I’ll wash it and return it tomorrow,’ I say firmly.

‘Very well, although I think you’re making this into something it’s not – but you have morals, which I respect.’

‘How accommodating of you.’ My filter button is officially broken. Once again, he looks at me, challenging my tone. Challenge me all you want, you narcissistic shit-hot Adonis.

His dark eyes burn into me.

He moves to the far side of the office, opening another door.

‘Please freshen up in here; use whatever you need.’

I walk towards the door and the man holding it open, then step through and lock the door behind me, resting my back against the wood.

As predicted, I’m in yet another fabulous room – stunning, in fact. I assume the floor-to-ceiling windows are tinted, unless he is into voyeurism. The furniture is white ceramic encased in dark wood, and there are fresh white towels and an array of Jo Malone products. Would it be rude to have a shower and then moisturise?

Looking in the mirror, I assess the damage to my appearance. With no surprise, I see I look bloody dreadful but, given the past hour, I feel my reflection is justified. Removing my wet black blazer, I evaluate my dress. It is transparent, sticking to my body. Before I take it off, I quickly check my underwear. Has it up held to the challenge of not becoming translucent? Overall it has done pretty well; my dignity remains unharmed.

Discarding my wet dress and underwear, I begin to dry myself. I take out my jeans, black court shoes and make-up bag. My underwear is far too wet: I will have to go commando, something I’m not completely comfortable with. But today is proving to be a little testing, on many levels.

First I slip on my jeans and the borrowed blue shirt. I roll the sleeves up and try to do something with the excess fabric, as the shirt is far too large for my small frame. I opt for the 1980s look, tying a knot at my waist. This also has the benefit of covering my breasts and, more importantly, my nipples, which peak at the sound of his sexy voice.

With my hair looking dreadful, my only option is to pull it back into a tight ponytail. I reapply eyeliner and mascara, followed by blusher and lip-gloss. At last I resemble a human being. I slip on my black heels and look in the mirror. I’m pleased to say the shirt looks OK; almost passable. I repack my bag and carry my soaked blazer.

Hesitantly I unlock the bathroom door and re-enter the office. His stare stops me in my tracks. Instantly, the heat begins to rise on my face as my groin pulsates. My nipples automatically harden under his gaze, his dark eyes teasing and manipulating my breasts, causing sensations to wash over me like a burst of cold air. For Christ’s sake. I need to pull myself together.

He replaces the receiver and walks around the front of the desk. With his jacket removed, I can appreciate his physique. He has broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His firm torso is outlined by the taut fabric of his shirt. I can only wonder what he would look like naked.

‘You look much better, not so wet…’ He smiles.

I can’t help but grin. ‘Let’s face it, I couldn’t look any worse – and thanks for the loan.’ I tug at his shirt.

‘You wear it well. I think you should keep it.’ He studies my newly acquired ensemble, particularly the shirt. I lower my head and pray that my nipples aren’t visible.

‘OK…’ I clear my throat. ‘Thank you for your hospitality and the loan.’ Once again, I point to the shirt. ‘I really need to leave.’

‘You are most welcome. I have arranged for my driver to drop you off anywhere you need to be.’ He remains in front of me, his eyes fixed to mine.

‘That’s not necessary; I don’t have far to go.’

‘It may not be necessary, but I insist: after all, I caused your disaster this afternoon.’ He moves towards me, closing the gap between us, his hands in his pockets, looking far too divine.

‘You can insist all you like, but I said I can manage – thank you.’ I move from my position and turn to leave.

‘Are you always intractable, Kate Harper?’ His voice stops me in my tracks. I turn. Clearly, women never refuse his help.

‘Maybe we have something in common. I don’t do what I don’t want to.’ I feel empowered and strong. ‘Besides, you see these things?’ I point to my legs. ‘It’s a miracle – I can move them…’ I chuckle and continue to walk.

‘Kate Harper.’ Once again I turn to look at him. ‘Do I bring out the worst in you?’ He removes his hands from his trouser pockets and folds his arms, leaning back on his desk – evidently waiting for another smart answer from me.

‘No, Luke. I’m merely stating the facts, and the fact is that I can manage by myself. That doesn’t make me stubborn. I think you’ll find it makes me independent.’ I deliver my best poker face, hoping to appear stronger than I am. ‘As I said, thank you for your help, even though you did have some part to play in my misfortune.’

The sound of his mobile phone ringing gives me the perfect opportunity to leave. I turn on my heels and head towards the door. I hear his abrupt response to the call, followed by his raised voice, that swiftly turns into shouting.

‘Kate,’ he says loudly.

I turn my head just before reaching the door.

‘Bye.’

‘Kate – wait.’

I stop once more.

‘I’ll drop your shirt off tomorrow.’

‘Until tomorrow.’ He looks through me, unnerving me once again. However, my answer seems to satisfy him.

2

Frantically I press the button for the ground floor, checking around me, ensuring the Adonis remains in his lair. My foot taps impatiently as I watch the digital display slowly climb to the fortieth floor. The lift arrives and I move to the far corner, recollecting my brief encounter with the most fuckable man I have ever met.

At last I reach the ground floor. Returning my security pass to the reception desk, I move swiftly towards the revolving doors. Thankfully, the rain has stopped, leaving a refreshing blanket of cool air to calm my overwrought body. With no choice – due to my heels – I flag down a passing black cab and slump into the rear seat, gazing at the passing buildings. Finally, I relax.

Within ten minutes the cab draws up at Pete’s. I stand on the pavement, allowing the air to hit me again, diffusing the heat that is still raging through me both physically and mentally.

I walk through the door and meet Pete cleaning tables.

‘Hi, Pete.’

‘Kate.’

‘Where’s Fiona?’ Fiona is Pete’s Russian wife.

‘She’s just gone to the shops.’ He stops and assesses me, realising I look a little off-colour. ‘You all right? You look a bit…’

‘You wouldn’t believe the afternoon I’ve had.’ I sit on a barstool, knowing my usual calm demeanour has left me.

‘You look harassed.’ He walks around to the other side of the bar and pours a coffee, placing it in front me. ‘Here, this might help.’

‘Thanks, but I’m not sure coffee is strong enough.’ I laugh at my pathetic state of mind.

I sit for a moment, feeling unsettled. This man, a stranger, has unearthed something in me I can’t explain.

‘Penny for your thoughts.’

I turn to see my sister Harriet – or Harry, as we all call her. ‘Hi, how was your day?’

‘The usual…’ Harry takes the stool next to me, placing her bag on the counter.

‘You’re not going to believe what happened to me this afternoon.’ I sip my coffee, hoping caffeine will provide me with some much-needed mental clarity. ‘You know I’m partial to a little humiliation.’

‘You do like a bit of drama, I can’t deny it.’

‘Trust me, this was, well… definitely not one of my finer moments.’ I raise my eyebrows. Harry knows that unfavourable situations follow me, and my fleeting moment with that delicious creature was no exception.

‘Hey, ladies.’ Harry and I look round, to see Kiki making her usual grand entrance. She’s like a human hurricane. You know when she arrives, leaving devastation in her wake.

‘Pete, where’s the tequila? I feel like a few shots, followed by a curry… Who wants to join me?’

Pete places a bottle of tequila and some shot glasses on the bar, aware that Kiki, true to her word, is here for the long haul.

‘Kate, Harry, do you want to join me for a party? I know it’s only Thursday, but let’s start the weekend early.’ Kiki plants herself on a stool next to me, filling glasses with tequila, disregarding our response.

‘Kate’s had the afternoon from hell, apparently, but don’t let us rain on your parade…’

Kiki downs her first shot. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

‘Oh, Kiki, you know me. I’m telling the truth; I have nothing to hide.’

Collecting my bag from the floor, I rummage for my phone, pulling everything out – I packed quickly trying to get away from his office. Something – or some things – are missing. Shit… double shit… Oh fuck, where is my underwear? I bang my forehead on the counter.

‘Spill, Harper, what’s happened?’ Kiki asks in her up-front caring manner.

‘Well, it’s safe to say it has just got a little worse. You’d better give me that drink. Fill it up, Kiki Marlow, all the way to the top.’ I lay my arms on the bar and bury my face in them, allowing my embarrassment to fade away, if only for a few minutes.

‘Your wish is my command.’ As ever, her pouring skills are perfect when tequila is involved.

Pete leans across the bar towards me. ‘Are you actually working tonight?’

‘I think she’s multitasking,’ Harry protectively responds, defending my honour.

Pete shakes his head.

I sit up, take a deep breath, and down a shot of tequila, providing me with the Dutch courage I need to retell my story.

‘OK… I’ve just had a run-in with the most handsome, fuckable man I have ever met, and I mean he’s seriously hot.’

I retell the events blow by blow. By the time I finish explaining the sheer gorgeousness of him, our other friend Molly and Fiona, Pete’s wife, have also arrived at the bar. As the story unfolds, I go into too much detail – of a sexual nature. The girls can’t help but laugh when I mention my need to purchase a vibrator, at which point Pete walks off.

‘You girls are worse than men.’ He shakes his head disapprovingly, and continues to work at the other end of the bar.

‘It gets better, I can assure you… So, I said I got changed, hence the loan of the shirt.’ I tug at the borrowed item in question, acting out my story. ‘I’ve just looked in my bag for my phone and realised that I’ve left my bra and knickers in his bathroom! Oh, I hear you ask, was it your sexy lingerie? No – bloody nude M&S basic range… You know the kind, hot and sexy.’ At my admission, the girls fall about laughing. ‘I’m glad to provide you with entertainment.’ I curtsey. ‘I aim to please… and let’s not forget that I still have to drop off the bloody shirt tomorrow. Great, another peachy day for me.’

‘Who is he?’ Harry appears to be lost in the story of a possible romance, with no thought of my humiliation.

‘Oh – Luke… he said Luke in the lift. He must have a good job: Mr Jones makes his shirts and his office was huge, and I mean bloody huge.’

‘Ask Mr Jones tomorrow, or Google him.’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘This man is way out of my league – loaded and arrogant. Shit-hot to look at, but that’s where it stops. Besides, Mr Jones’s list of clients is private.’

With a strong desire to end the discussion, I get up and move to the other side of the bar. Work will provide the best cure, and stop me thinking about him any more.

‘Hey, Kate, you know what you are?’ Kiki shouts at the top of her voice, which is extremely loud, loud enough that the entire bar becomes privy to my life. ‘You’re a modern-day Cinderella.’

Shrieks of laughter ripple from the girls. Once again, I have the lead role within the story.

‘I would rather have left my bloody Converse than my underwear. I don’t think he’s going to hunt me down to see if they fit.’ I have to join in with the laughter.

‘Oh my God, I bet he’s in the bathroom picking them up. Maybe he’ll keep them – do you think he’s kinky?’ Kiki asks, only one thought on her mind: sex.

‘Only you would want a kinky Prince Charming,’ Harry responds, exasperated at our highly sexually charged friend.

‘I like a man to thrill me, in more ways than one. I make no excuses for my sexual needs…’ Kiki does have a point; after all, she’s the most sexually confident person I know.

‘No, your need is sex,’ Molly pipes up, ribbing our demanding friend.

‘I’m a born slut, and proud of it.’ Kiki never falters when providing affirmation regarding her erotic appetite.

The girls huddle around the bar for the remainder of the evening, chatting, gossiping and laughing whilst I work. Thursdays are not usually busy. This is unfortunate: being busy is exactly what I need this evening.

* * *

Home is my favourite place in the world, where I feel safe and secure. Harry and I have lived together for four years. The house is in the next road along from our childhood home. I head upstairs to remove my borrowed shirt, slip on a vest and return to the kitchen, placing the shirt in the washing machine on a hand-wash cycle.

‘Harry, do you want tea and toast?’ I holler up the stairs.

‘Yeah, great. I’m having a quick shower – I’ll be down in five.’

Finishing mixing the ingredients for a fruitcake for tomorrow, I place the dough in the oven. Kettle on, bread in the toaster, I sit at the kitchen table with my thoughts as Harry ambles in, ready for bed.

‘Are you OK?’ She looks at me with a concerned face, tenderly stroking my hair.

I force a smile. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just been a crap day and tomorrow isn’t going to be any easier. I’m not looking forward to saying goodbye to Mr Jones. I know I’m not really saying goodbye, but you know what I mean.’

‘Onwards and upwards: you need to think about what you want to do. It’s a perfect opportunity to get your teeth into something new. Besides, you knew Mr Jones’s job was temporary.’

‘Yeah, I know. All I want is a peaceful life and a permanent job. I know – I sound pathetic. Allow me to wallow.’

‘Time’s up, babe. Ready to face the real world?’ Harry replies. ‘Now where’s my bloody tea and toast?’ She knows my philosophy: food always provides comfort and clarity.

I join Harry as we devour our evening meal.

‘The way I see it, you can do anything you want, and I mean whatever you want,’ Harry says, her mouth full of toast. ‘You’re the only person I know who can turn their hand to anything.’ She licks her fingers clean of butter.

‘I think that’s the problem. I’m not sure what to do. Maybe interiors.’ I sit and contemplate my future.

‘Why don’t you take time in France to think properly about what you really want to do?’

‘I guess next week is the perfect opportunity. I can work on my CV whilst we’re away.’

Harry begins to smile; clearly, my life is not that amusing.

‘Harriet Harper, what gives? That smile doesn’t belong to this conversation… you’re hiding something.’ I fold my arms and grin at my sister. I know her far too well, and I’m sure there is a male reason for her playful expression.

‘OK, you know I told you about the French artist Raymond Leclair. Well, he asked me out to dinner.’ She looks down at her hands, resting on the table.

‘That’s fantastic! Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

‘The Prince Charming situation. I didn’t want to rub salt in your wounds.’

‘Bloody hell, Harry, just because disasters follow me like flies to shit, don’t hold out on me. Christ, I need faith in humankind. I want to believe that there’s happiness somewhere for all of us.’

‘Disasters? You’re so dramatic.’

‘OK, I’m single and don’t have a job. Like I said – a disaster.’ We both laugh. ‘Well, I’m waiting. What’s he like?’

‘Not what you would expect.’ She looks a little coy. ‘He is older than me, and…’ she pauses, ‘he has grey hair.’

‘So he’s mature. What’s the problem with that? At least he won’t behave like some of the immature arseholes you’ve dated.’ I raise my brows and laugh. Undeniably, not all her past relationships have gone well. ‘It’s the accent – go on, admit it….’ I tilt my head as she blushes, confirming my thoughts.

‘Kate, it’s more than that. I told you that I’ve been working on the insurance for his art display here in London?’

I nod.

‘We just hit it off, and he gets me. I know, I hear myself and it sounds bloody ridiculous, but … I don’t know. Something feels right – and before you ask, no, I haven’t done anything yet, not even a kiss.’

‘Is he the one?’

‘A bit soon to know, don’t you think? But I really like him – a lot.’

‘So he has grey hair… Hmmm, I wonder if that means he’s grey all over.’ Harry taps my arm as we fall about laughing.

‘I’ll let you know. Listen, I know we’re off to France on Sunday, but I really don’t want to discuss it with the girls. Kiki will drive me insane.’

‘Not a word, I promise.’

‘Good… I’m off to bed. How long before you’re done?’ Harry stands and clears her plate and cup into the dishwasher.

‘I’m waiting for the cake and the shirt.’

Jobs completed, I retreat upstairs, and hang the blue shirt on my wardrobe door to dry. Although I’m exhausted, I need a shower. The hot water runs down my sensitive skin, as my mind returns to him and the impact he’s still having. I begin to mentally rationalise our incompatibility: he’s rich, I’m not; he’s arrogant, I’m not; he’s super-sexy… Bloody hell, I can’t allow my mind to speculate any further; my feelings are far too unnerving. I wash my hair and body in record time, and swiftly pull on my pyjamas. Feeling lifeless, I crawl under the duvet, even though I have wet hair.

He sits at his desk. His naked torso is muscular and defined. My eyes go to his firm lips, and… Why is he not looking up? I bang my hands on the desk, but with no response. I can hear his phone ringing. It’s getting louder. Why is he not answering it, and why is he not looking at me? Ring, ring, ring…

I open my eyes, as my arm reaches out to stop the annoying sound that has intruded on my delicious dream.