Goodnight.
CHAPTER NINE
‘YOU KNOW, I still can’t believe you cancelled on me,’ said Gemma, who’d shown up at Abby’s flat for a cup of tea at four and still hadn’t left three hours later. ‘Blowing out your best friend for a date. Huh. And whatever happened to Leo Cartwright with his emotional obstinacy not being the man for you?’
Abby eyed herself critically in the mirror that hung on the wall of her bedroom and ignored the quick leap of her pulse at the thought that in around an hour she’d see him again. ‘He isn’t the man for me,’ she said, turning and twisting to check her bottom for a VPL. ‘And this isn’t a date. This is a business meeting.’
‘Sure it is.
‘It is.’ After two weeks of pretty much constantly reminding herself of the facts she could say it—and believe it—without wishing it were different because she didn’t, of course, want it to be different.
Gemma glanced up from the magazine she was flicking through while lying stretched out on Abby’s bed. ‘Then why have you had your hair done?’
‘Coincidence. It needed a cut.’
‘This morning?’
‘Why not?’
‘You had it cut a fortnight ago.’
‘So? Split ends have no concept of time.’
Gemma hmmed sceptically and went back to the magazine. ‘Whatever. But I bet you don’t normally wear that top for business meetings.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’
‘Nothing. It’s fabulous. The colour really suits you and the sparkly bits are cool. But it’s so low cut that all you have to do is lean forwards a bit and Leo will get an eyeful of cleavage.’ She paused, then added, ‘Actually, scrap that. You don’t even need to lean forwards. And every time you move it’ll shimmer and you’ll be drawing attention to your boobs. Is that a coincidence too?’
Abby did a quick wiggle, then leaned forwards, and had to admit that Gemma had a point. About the coincidence thing too, because of course the timing of her haircut and her choice of outfit weren’t a coincidence. Even though she knew perfectly well that this evening was nothing but business, she’d wanted to look as good as she could. As sexy as she could. Which was pathetic and pointless, but there it was.
She might not have seen Leo for a couple of months but that didn’t mean she hadn’t thought about him. She had. A lot. And not just in the strictly business sense.
It would probably have helped if she hadn’t set up that Google alert so that every time he appeared anywhere online, a day or so later she’d find out about it.
After an initial flurry of alerts, from which she’d learned that the brothers’ company had been granted planning permission to develop a swathe of east London and that Jake had appeared at the opening of an art gallery in Mayfair, she’d told herself to delete it because these were things she didn’t re
ally need to know.
But every now and then up would pop a picture of Leo, inevitably looking all dark and smouldering and gorgeous, and she’d remember the things they’d done in bed together and she just couldn’t bring herself to click on the delete button.
It also might have helped if she hadn’t had such regular contact with Elsa Brightman, but there wasn’t a lot she could have done about that. In the absence of any information coming direct from Leo’s parents, and not a lot coming from either him or Jake, she was the best source Abby had.
The problem was that not only was she Leo’s mother’s best friend and maid of honour, she’d also been something of a semi-permanent fixture in the Cartwright household over the years, living close by as she did. And, heavens, did she have stories to tell about the boys. Stories she’d been delighted to share, with only the barest of prompts, and which Abby had lapped up.
She’d told herself that any information was useful to guarantee the success of the night, but, honestly, what need did she have for details about Leo’s childhood? None. What relevance did what he’d got up to in his teens have? Again, none. All those girls he’d gone through at university and had occasionally brought home? She’d certainly had no valid reason to probe for details of them. And as for her delicate enquiries into his wedding day, which to her surprise had been very politely but very firmly rebuffed, well, those had no bearing on the proceedings whatsoever.
So when she encouraged Elsa to continue with her stories when she otherwise might have stopped it was nothing more than rampant curiosity and self-indulgence because she was intrigued and she simply couldn’t get enough.
It was absurd, the hunger she had for information about him. Scarily absurd. And her inability to exert any sort of control over her thoughts was downright worrying.
As was the impatience with which she’d found herself waiting for his replies to her emails, texts and calls, the disappointment when a day went past with no word, and the excitement when he did get in touch. What that was all about she had no idea. She’d never been the type to wait and hope and obsess when it came to men, yet that was exactly what she’d become.
She’d also become reckless, irrational and careless, because how on earth could she have signed off one of her emails to him with a kiss? It didn’t matter that Elsa had just told her about the night Leo and Jake had snuck up into that tree house to gatecrash the girls’ pyjama party with torches and Frankenstein masks, and caused mayhem. It didn’t matter that her heart had practically melted at the thought of it. The lapse in professionalism had been inexcusable.
As had been the subsequent shift in tone of their communication, which had definitely become more flirty. She couldn’t ever recall bantering like that with a client, or using emoticons and exclamation marks with quite such abandon.
Yet deep down she’d loved it. Rather pathetically, it brightened her days. Gave her something to look forward to. Something to think about and, if she let herself, read far too much into, such as was he flirting back? If he was, why?