‘Great. Well, let me know if you need me to wade in.’
‘Nope, I’ve got this. The caterer asked you to go by some time this week to review the menu. You’re free Friday afternoon.’
My heart notches up a bit. Before Nicholas left, he turned and said, ‘Friday night. I’ll be in touch with details.’
But the afternoon is a separate matter. I nod, turning away in case the heat in my blood has converted to pink cheeks. ‘Sounds good. Send me a meeting invite once it’s confirmed.’
‘Done.’
As soon as I’m alone, I cross the room and lift the box, running my finger over the embossed text with a small smile. My fingers shake as I pull on the satin ribbon. It loosens then drops to the floor, just a spool of white against the carpet.
I lift the lid slowly, placing it on the desk. There’s a gold sticker joining two sides of tissue paper together. I slide my finger under it, easing it up, deliberately moving slowly to counteract my body’s impatience, needing to control my instincts—which shout at me to rip the damned paper and see what’s inside.
The paper lifts and a delicate cream silk fabric sits inside, perfectly nestled, so I have to lift it out to see what it is. My breath hitches not at the beauty of the lingerie, though it is stunning, so much as at the idea that he, Nicholas Rothsmore, bought it for me.
I hold it up a little higher, skimming my eyes over the delicate spaghetti straps, which lead to a low V of lace. I can tell that when I wear it, my breasts will be visible through the frothy, twisting swirls. Silk kisses lace and it falls in soft folds down to what I guess will be my hips when I finally put on the exquisite piece. I spin, looking back to the box, and smile, because there are matching briefs, silk and lace, with ribbons at the side, so they can be undone with no more than a slight tug.
Anticipation supercharges my blood. I’m about to lay the lingerie back in the box and stuff the lid on when I catch sight of an envelope in the bottom. Intrigued, I reach for it, opening the back and lifting out a single piece of thick card.
It bears his name at the top, and a coat of arms, which, I imagine, belong to his ancient family. I stare at it for a moment, making out a lion, a spiky-looking flower and a bird with a full and impressive plume of feathers.
Aristocratic guys I generally avoid like the plague. And with good reason. All my experience has made me wary of people with too much money, but at least people who’ve had to work to earn it or fight to keep it have some appreciation for the value of it and an understanding for what life is like for those who don’t; the liberties and choices many are deprived of because of a lack of financial viability.
But it’s the lords and the sirs, the counts and the barons who are, by far, the most...wankery. In fact, the only member I’ve expelled from the club was a lord with an impeccable reputation, but we discovered he’d drugged a waitress at a club event—one of our members had found them in the Intimate Rooms just in time—but, God, it could have been so much worse.
Not that all the guys with titles are bad. They’re just definitely not my type.
I have no idea what my type is, but it’s not Nicholas.
That gives me a sense of relief because I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now, and so the only way I can really date him is because I know it will go nowhere.
Miss Anonymous—
I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.
Wear this.
N
It’s so simple, so completely to the point, but my heart stammers as though he’s breathed the words into my ear, and I need to sit down for a second to regroup. His handwriting is bold and confident, just like him, and he uses—what else?—a fountain pen. I lift it to my lips without thinking and breathe deeply, as though I might somehow catch a lingering hint of him on the card.
Friday is still three nights away and suddenly the wait feels excruciating.
Fortunately, I’m flat out too busy to pine or anticipate...much. Wednesday will be spent doing membership interviews and vetting, Thursday will be planning out next year’s events and schedules, making sure we have something seriously incredible planned for each month. Right now, The Billionaires’ Club is the hottest ticket in the world—my waiting list is a mile long.
It’s a great position to be in but it’s also dangerous territory—someone else could set up and start taking my business if I don’t make sure our offering is consistently better. Extra is my middle name.
We’ve got Egypt on the calendar next year, including the kind of money-can’t-buy access to the Pyramids of Giza followed by a starlit dinner right beneath the Sphinx, with delicacies from all over the world being flown in for members. Imagine a carpet of stars, a thousand candles lighting the way and one of the world’s best jazz musicians crooning some beautiful music all evening long. Followed by a night in a tent that, once you’re inside, is more like a six-star hotel.
It’s taken a huge amount of work to organise—dealing with the authorities and making sure we’re not violating any local customs or laws—but this is what people pay their million dollars a year for. Oh, the ticket price itself is extra on top, but without being a member, you don’t get a look-in.
* * *
On Friday, I meet with the gala caterers to do a small tasting of the menu, as well as the wines, and go over the running of the night, explaining when we’ll serve which courses and why.
It’s a busy day, and I’m glad for that, glad that by the time six o’clock rolls around I’ve barely had time to stop, let alone think about Nicholas.
Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve barely stopped thinking about him but in a ‘back of my mind’ kind of way. But as I lather myself in the shower then towel off before smoothing oil over my hairless legs, all I can think about is the next few hours and the certainty that soon his hands will be where my hands are.