Promised
Page 94
I jump up and dash to my bedroom, snatching down the third and final dress from my shopping trip with Gregory. Giving it a good inspection, I conclude very quickly that he’ll disintegrate before my eyes. Holy shit, it’s lethal. I have no idea what possessed me to allow Gregory to talk me into buying it, but I’m so glad I did. It’s red, it’s backless, it’s short, it’s . . . reckless.
Once I’ve taken my time to shower again, shaving everywhere and creaming from top to toe, I wriggle into the dress. The design won’t allow for a bra, which, annoyingly, isn’t a problem for me and my sparse chest. I flip my head upside down and blast my masses of blond into perfect waves that tumble freely, then I apply some make-up, concentrating on keeping it natural, just how he likes it. My new black stilettos and bag finish me off and, deciding a jacket will spoil the effect, I’m soon darting down the stairs faster than is safe.
The door swings open before I make it there, Nan and George halting all conversation when they clock me flying towards them.
‘Wowzers!’ George blurts, then apologises profusely when Nan scowls at him. ‘Sorry. Bit of a shock, that’s all.’
‘Are you going out with Miller?’ Nan looks like she’s just hit the jackpot at bingo.
‘Yes.’ I rush past them.
‘Jolly good!’ she sings. ‘See how she rocks the red, George?’
I don’t hear George’s reply, although I gather from his reaction to my red-clad body that it was a resounding yes.
By the time I’ve run halfway down the street to the main road, I’m verging on breaking out in a sweat, so I slow my pace, also thinking that I should be fashionably late – make him sweat. I hover on the corner for a few minutes, ironically feeling like a hooker, before I flag down a cab and tell him my destination.
I check my make-up in the reflection of the window, make a fuss of my hair and brush my dress down, making certain that it won’t be creased. I’m being as precise as Miller, but I bet he hasn’t got butterflies in his stomach, and I’m damning myself to hell for having a whole farm of them fluttering around in my tummy.
When the cabbie turns onto Piccadilly towards Stratton Street, I glance at the dashboard clock. It’s five past eight. I’m not late enough, and I need a cash machine, too. ‘This will do,’ I say, rummaging through my purse and passing over my only twenty. ‘Thank you.’ I slide out as elegantly as possible and stride down a busy Piccadilly, where on a weeknight evening I look ridiculously overdressed. This only heightens my self-consciousness, but remembering what Gregory told me, I try my very hardest to appear confident – like I always make this much effort. Once I’ve found a cashpoint, I withdraw some money and round the corner onto Stratton Street. It’s eight-fifteen, making me a perfect quarter of an hour late. The door is opened for me and I take a deep breath of confidence, entering looking cool and self-assured, when on the inside I’m wondering what the frigging hell I’m doing.
‘Are you meeting someone, madam?’ the maître d’ asks, giving me the once-over, looking both impressed and a little disapproving. It makes me pull my hem down, which I immediately mentally chastise myself for.
‘Miller Hart,’ I inform him with the utmost confidence, making up for the little slip-up of adjusting my hem.
‘Ah, Mr Hart.’ He clearly knows him. It makes me feel like crap. Does he know what Miller does? Does he think I’m a client? My anger burns the nerves away.
He smiles brightly at me and indicates for me to follow, which I do while struggling not to look around the restaurant for Miller.
As we pass through the randomly placed tables, I begin to feel the deep burn on my skin that my heart’s nemesis spikes, just from looking at me. Wherever he is, he’s seen me, and as I slowly cast my eyes around, I see him, too. There would be nothing that I could ever do to stop the increase of my heart rate, nor the hitching of my breath. He may be the male equivalent of a high-class prostitute, but he’s still Miller and he’s still stunning and he’s still . . . perfect. He rises from his chair and fastens the button of his jacket, his dark stubble gracing his inconceivably gifted face, his blue eyes blistering me as I approach. I don’t falter. I meet his gaze with equal resolve, noting immediately what I’m about to encounter. He has an air of determination surrounding him. He’s going to try and seduce me again, which is fine, but he won’t be getting his sweet girl.
He nods at the maître d’, a signal that he’ll take it from here, then rounds the table and pulls my chair out for me. ‘Please.’ He swoops his hand towards the seat.
‘Thank you.’ I sit and place my bag on the table, almost relaxed until Miller lays his hand on my shoulder and pushes his mouth to my ear.
‘You look unimaginably beautiful.’ He pulls my hair to the side and skims his lips across the tender hollow below my ear. He can’t see me, so it doesn’t matter that I close my eyes, but my neck tilting to give him space is a dead giveaway of what he does to me. ‘Exquisite,’ he murmurs, sending a wave of tingles down my spine.
Relieving me of his touch, he appears in front of me again, unbuttoning his jacket and taking his seat. He glances down at his expensive watch and raises his eyebrows, silently observing my lateness.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for us.’
I match his raised brow. ‘You were obviously confident that I would be here.’
‘You are, aren’t you?’ He collects a bottle of white wine from the floor-standing wine bucket that’s positioned next to the table and starts to pour. The glasses are smaller than the red ones that we used yesterday, and I’m wondering how Miller will cope with the placing of things on the restaurant table. Nothing is positioned as it would be at home, but he doesn’t seem too bothered by it. He’s not twitchy, and weirdly that is making me very twitchy. I almost want to put the wine on the table where it belongs.
Pulling my wandering mind back to the man sitting opposite me, I observe his cool persona for a few moments, then I speak. ‘Why did you ask me to come?’
He lifts his glass and swirls the wine slowly before taking it to those devastating lips and drinking slowly, all the time ensuring his eyes never stray from mine. He knows what he’s doing. ‘I don’t recall asking you to come.’
For a split second, I nearly lose my composure. ‘You don’t want me here?’ I ask cockily.
‘As I recall, I sent you a message telling you that I would be here at eight. I also expressed my desire for something. I didn’t demand it.’ He takes another slow sip. ‘But by you being here, I’m assuming you would like to give me what I desire.’
His arrogance has returned full force. It spikes my own sass, and I know Miller is now wary of my sass. He likes his sweet girl. I reach into my purse and gather the cash I’ve loaded myself with. Then I toss it on the plate in front of him and relax back in my chair, all brash and calm. ‘I’d like to be entertained for four hours.’
His wine glass is floating between his mouth and the table as he stares down at the pile of money, which I’ve diabolically used my savings account to obtain; the savings account which contains every penny that my mother left me, the savings account which I have never dipped into out of principle. How ironic that I’m now using some of the money to have myself . . . entertained. I’ve drawn a reaction, just like I planned, and the words he once said are dancing at the front of my mind, egging me on. Promise me you won’t ever degrade yourself like that again. Me? What about him?
Once I’ve taken my time to shower again, shaving everywhere and creaming from top to toe, I wriggle into the dress. The design won’t allow for a bra, which, annoyingly, isn’t a problem for me and my sparse chest. I flip my head upside down and blast my masses of blond into perfect waves that tumble freely, then I apply some make-up, concentrating on keeping it natural, just how he likes it. My new black stilettos and bag finish me off and, deciding a jacket will spoil the effect, I’m soon darting down the stairs faster than is safe.
The door swings open before I make it there, Nan and George halting all conversation when they clock me flying towards them.
‘Wowzers!’ George blurts, then apologises profusely when Nan scowls at him. ‘Sorry. Bit of a shock, that’s all.’
‘Are you going out with Miller?’ Nan looks like she’s just hit the jackpot at bingo.
‘Yes.’ I rush past them.
‘Jolly good!’ she sings. ‘See how she rocks the red, George?’
I don’t hear George’s reply, although I gather from his reaction to my red-clad body that it was a resounding yes.
By the time I’ve run halfway down the street to the main road, I’m verging on breaking out in a sweat, so I slow my pace, also thinking that I should be fashionably late – make him sweat. I hover on the corner for a few minutes, ironically feeling like a hooker, before I flag down a cab and tell him my destination.
I check my make-up in the reflection of the window, make a fuss of my hair and brush my dress down, making certain that it won’t be creased. I’m being as precise as Miller, but I bet he hasn’t got butterflies in his stomach, and I’m damning myself to hell for having a whole farm of them fluttering around in my tummy.
When the cabbie turns onto Piccadilly towards Stratton Street, I glance at the dashboard clock. It’s five past eight. I’m not late enough, and I need a cash machine, too. ‘This will do,’ I say, rummaging through my purse and passing over my only twenty. ‘Thank you.’ I slide out as elegantly as possible and stride down a busy Piccadilly, where on a weeknight evening I look ridiculously overdressed. This only heightens my self-consciousness, but remembering what Gregory told me, I try my very hardest to appear confident – like I always make this much effort. Once I’ve found a cashpoint, I withdraw some money and round the corner onto Stratton Street. It’s eight-fifteen, making me a perfect quarter of an hour late. The door is opened for me and I take a deep breath of confidence, entering looking cool and self-assured, when on the inside I’m wondering what the frigging hell I’m doing.
‘Are you meeting someone, madam?’ the maître d’ asks, giving me the once-over, looking both impressed and a little disapproving. It makes me pull my hem down, which I immediately mentally chastise myself for.
‘Miller Hart,’ I inform him with the utmost confidence, making up for the little slip-up of adjusting my hem.
‘Ah, Mr Hart.’ He clearly knows him. It makes me feel like crap. Does he know what Miller does? Does he think I’m a client? My anger burns the nerves away.
He smiles brightly at me and indicates for me to follow, which I do while struggling not to look around the restaurant for Miller.
As we pass through the randomly placed tables, I begin to feel the deep burn on my skin that my heart’s nemesis spikes, just from looking at me. Wherever he is, he’s seen me, and as I slowly cast my eyes around, I see him, too. There would be nothing that I could ever do to stop the increase of my heart rate, nor the hitching of my breath. He may be the male equivalent of a high-class prostitute, but he’s still Miller and he’s still stunning and he’s still . . . perfect. He rises from his chair and fastens the button of his jacket, his dark stubble gracing his inconceivably gifted face, his blue eyes blistering me as I approach. I don’t falter. I meet his gaze with equal resolve, noting immediately what I’m about to encounter. He has an air of determination surrounding him. He’s going to try and seduce me again, which is fine, but he won’t be getting his sweet girl.
He nods at the maître d’, a signal that he’ll take it from here, then rounds the table and pulls my chair out for me. ‘Please.’ He swoops his hand towards the seat.
‘Thank you.’ I sit and place my bag on the table, almost relaxed until Miller lays his hand on my shoulder and pushes his mouth to my ear.
‘You look unimaginably beautiful.’ He pulls my hair to the side and skims his lips across the tender hollow below my ear. He can’t see me, so it doesn’t matter that I close my eyes, but my neck tilting to give him space is a dead giveaway of what he does to me. ‘Exquisite,’ he murmurs, sending a wave of tingles down my spine.
Relieving me of his touch, he appears in front of me again, unbuttoning his jacket and taking his seat. He glances down at his expensive watch and raises his eyebrows, silently observing my lateness.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for us.’
I match his raised brow. ‘You were obviously confident that I would be here.’
‘You are, aren’t you?’ He collects a bottle of white wine from the floor-standing wine bucket that’s positioned next to the table and starts to pour. The glasses are smaller than the red ones that we used yesterday, and I’m wondering how Miller will cope with the placing of things on the restaurant table. Nothing is positioned as it would be at home, but he doesn’t seem too bothered by it. He’s not twitchy, and weirdly that is making me very twitchy. I almost want to put the wine on the table where it belongs.
Pulling my wandering mind back to the man sitting opposite me, I observe his cool persona for a few moments, then I speak. ‘Why did you ask me to come?’
He lifts his glass and swirls the wine slowly before taking it to those devastating lips and drinking slowly, all the time ensuring his eyes never stray from mine. He knows what he’s doing. ‘I don’t recall asking you to come.’
For a split second, I nearly lose my composure. ‘You don’t want me here?’ I ask cockily.
‘As I recall, I sent you a message telling you that I would be here at eight. I also expressed my desire for something. I didn’t demand it.’ He takes another slow sip. ‘But by you being here, I’m assuming you would like to give me what I desire.’
His arrogance has returned full force. It spikes my own sass, and I know Miller is now wary of my sass. He likes his sweet girl. I reach into my purse and gather the cash I’ve loaded myself with. Then I toss it on the plate in front of him and relax back in my chair, all brash and calm. ‘I’d like to be entertained for four hours.’
His wine glass is floating between his mouth and the table as he stares down at the pile of money, which I’ve diabolically used my savings account to obtain; the savings account which contains every penny that my mother left me, the savings account which I have never dipped into out of principle. How ironic that I’m now using some of the money to have myself . . . entertained. I’ve drawn a reaction, just like I planned, and the words he once said are dancing at the front of my mind, egging me on. Promise me you won’t ever degrade yourself like that again. Me? What about him?
