Once a Bad Girl

chapter Eight

There was something wrong with her head. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Lottie groaned, feeling around her for the duvet. Locating a handful of fabric that felt promising, she gave it a sharp tug but the stupid thing refused to budge. She gave it another tug, and her stomach decided to join forces with her head and torture her some more. ‘Ugh.’ What time was it? She couldn’t be late for work. The first of Marlene’s pieces were arriving today, and she had to be there to catalogue everything.

‘Morning.’ The familiar gravelly voice made her feel like her brain was about to explode. Lottie rolled onto her stomach and pressed her face tightly into the pillow. ‘Go away and let me die in peace.’

A warm hand slapped her lightly on the backside. ‘No can do.’

She heard the sound of a cup being placed somewhere in the vicinity of her head, then a strange rattling sound. ‘Seriously, Josh, I’m dying here.’

The mattress shifted, and she found herself being rolled onto her back and her hair combed back from her face. ‘No, you just wish you were.’ His tone was dry, and the expression on his face was shuttered, grim.

Did she really look that bad? Suddenly desperate to get herself near a mirror, Lottie ripped her gaze from his face and spotted the white mug with steam rising from it that he’d set on the table at the side of the bed. Two shiny white pills sat next to it. She levered herself up into a sitting position, picked up the mug and bravely took a sip. It was strong and sweet, and it slid down her throat at speed. She knocked back the painkillers with the next mouthful, watching Josh from under her lashes as he pushed up from the bed and stomped over to the window, cradling his own mug. He was wearing striped pyjama pants that clung to his taut backside and flapped around his ankles. The sun caressed his bare shoulders, his beautiful golden skin. Was there anything about him that wasn’t perfect?

His irritation hit her like a slap to the face. Definitely not perfect. Okay, so it was a morning after, and morning afters were always awkward, but they’d both agreed it was a mistake and they’d done it anyway. Sulking now was like shutting the door after the horse had bolted. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Spit it out.’

‘Spit what out?’

‘Whatever it is that’s got your knickers in a bunch.’

He lifted one hand over his head, rested it on the edge of the window. ‘You got drunk.’

Lottie banged down her half-finished tea and winced. ‘You’re pissed because I had a couple of glasses of wine? Seriously?’ She swung her legs to the floor. It took her stomach a moment to catch up. ‘Okay, make that a couple of swimming-pool-sized glasses of wine.’

Gingerly trying her legs, she decided they would hold. She walked carefully over to him. He was being ridiculous, but she’d at least like to be wearing underwear before she pointed it out. ‘Anyway, I’m not drunk now. I’m hungover. I deserve some sympathy.’ She pressed a hand to her forehead, placed the other on his shoulder, feeling the powerful curve of muscle hot under her palm and the corresponding pull low in her belly, between her sex-sore thighs.

He said nothing, merely took another pull on his tea and continued to stare out of the window. A paperboy was winding his way down the street on an orange BMX, bag slung over his back.

Lottie got cross. So she’d got a little tipsy. So what? If he had a problem with it, he should have taken her home, not brought her back here and spent most of the night inside her. ‘What the hell is your problem?’ Lifting a finger, she poked him hard in the bicep. ‘Yes, I had a couple of glasses. So did pretty much everyone else there. It’s not a crime.’ And then something else occurred to her. ‘You run nightclubs, for heaven’s sake! You make a living out of the fact that people like to get a little loose on a Friday night! You, Josh Blakemore, are a hypocrite.’

‘I operate a stiff no-tolerance policy in my clubs. Anyone who has had enough is asked to leave.’

‘I don’t remember you asking me to leave last night!’

He turned then, his eyes glittering. ‘I should have done.’

‘Why?’

His hands locked onto her upper arms, pulled her up hard against him. Her nipples rubbed against the hard wall of his chest, the dusting of dark hair rough against her tender flesh. ‘Because I do not have sex with drunk women.’ His gaze was fastened angrily, hungrily on her mouth.

‘Hate to point this out,’ she said warily, ‘but that’s not exactly true.’

A muscle twitched in his cheek, as his heat, his scent surrounded her. She could sense the danger. It ran through her like an electric current. ‘I spent my childhood surrounded by drunk people,’ he said. ‘They get on my damn nerves.’

‘Too many celebrity parties?’

‘If you can call my parents and a crate of vodka a party.’

Shock took a swipe at her, followed by a cold, sinking feeling in her insides. She set her hands to his hips as his reaction began to make uncomfortable sense. ‘They drank a lot, your parents?’

He shrugged, but she could feel how tense he was. ‘Got to nurture the muse. Unfortunately, for those two nurturing the muse involved getting blind drunk, having raging arguments then waking up in a pool of vomit the next day with not the faintest clue what had happened. My dad cleaned himself up, eventually. Went to the States and got help. But not my mother.’

Oh, god. And she’d gone and got herself plastered. Her emotions raged war inside her, the part that wanted to say she was sorry, and the part that said actually, this was his problem and she’d done nothing wrong. But she couldn’t help remembering how he’d reacted when she’d told him about David. She owed him something. She owed him this.

‘I’m sorry your parents behaved like that.’ She stroked her fingertips across his bare chest, circling down, round one small dark nipple. He sucked in a sharp breath. ‘It must have been awful.’

‘Yeah, well. A lot of kids have it worse.’

‘And a lot of kids have it better,’ she pointed out. He set his hand to the nape of her neck, and Lottie closed her eyes for a moment, loving the touch, but then something occurred to her, and she opened her eyes. ‘How on earth have you managed to keep it out of the press?’

‘Bribery and corruption,’ he said, with a pained smile. ‘It’s an ongoing battle.’

‘But the auction…’

‘Yes,’ he replied, and his jaw set hard. ‘The auction.’

‘We could try to find a private buyer,’ Lottie said. ‘It’s not too late.’

‘Not for all of it,’ Josh said grimly. ‘And she’s insistent that it goes to auction. I’m trying to keep a handle on this, Lottie, but ultimately I’m not the one in control here.’

‘But surely she must know what will happen if the media start digging.’

‘She doesn’t believe she has a problem. And they’re going to be digging around in every crack, every crevice of her life looking for dirt.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘We keep going. The more time they waste on me, the less they have to spend on her.’

‘Do you think it will work?’

‘It’s worked for politicians for years,’ he said. ‘Nothing like inappropriate sex to draw attention away from what’s really going on.’

Is that all they were? Inappropriate sex? Lottie bit her lip, refusing to give in to sudden tears. ‘Well,’ she said bravely, ‘I’m not sorry we had inappropriate sex last night. Are you?’

‘I don’t want to be,’ he said, his mouth a thin, hard line. ‘But I don’t want to be happy about it either. You were drunk. I should have taken you home. I should never have taken advantage of you. And do you know what really hacks me off? I liked you a little loose.’

‘You did?’

A tight smile played at the corner of his mouth. ‘You got loud.’

‘Fortunately for the neighbours, I don’t think I’ll be getting loose again for at least another five years.’ She knew he was going to kiss her. Every nerve in her body went on high alert, her skin burning as he lowered his head and captured her mouth. She’d thought it would be angry, but it wasn’t. It was tender and exquisite and delicious and a million other things it shouldn’t be.

‘You’re doing something to me,’ he said, moving his head to taste her neck, her shoulder. ‘And I don’t know what the hell it is. I don’t like this, Lottie.’

‘This isn’t exactly going how I thought it would be either.’ She didn’t know what else to say. Her brain was fogged, and not just with the remnants of last night. ‘This was supposed to be pretend. I don’t know what we’re doing any more, Josh.’

He reached round to cup her bottom, his cheeks flushed, the thick weight of his erect penis pressed against her belly. ‘We’re selling it,’ he murmured. ‘Remember?’

She did remember. She remembered only too well. It was the only thing keeping her from falling headlong in love with him, and that was absolutely not on the agenda. The auction was only a couple of weeks away. They’d already added sex to the mess. Adding emotion was totally out of the question.

The clatter of the letterbox snapped her fogged brain back to the present. Lottie lifted her hands to his chest and shoved him away. His erection tented the front of his pyjama pants, his belly muscles flexing as he fought to control his breathing. He was a heartbeat away from throwing her back onto the bed, she realised, and she was a heartbeat away from asking him to. ‘If we get back in that bed, we won’t get out of it again,’ she said warningly, backing away from him.

‘I’m not sure I have a problem with that.’ He rubbed his chin, the sound of morning stubble catching on his palm making her breath stick in her throat.

But I do. And you should too. ‘Not right now, no. But when the blood gets back to your brain, you will. You said it yourself, Josh. You don’t want this.’

He smiled at her, an angry little twist to his perfectly sculpted mouth. He folded his arms, as if he was folding himself in, guarding himself. ‘There are clean towels and soap and stuff in the bathroom. I’ll go and make more tea.’

Alone in his enormous kitchen, Josh set to prepping breakfast and wished that he had a TV, a radio, anything to drown out the racket in his head. His stomach felt like he’d swallowed lead, his hands would not stay steady, and he felt as far from in control as he’d ever been. He’d just opened his mouth and spilled his darkest secret, and it had been way too easy.

Whatever he’d thought was going on with Lottie, he’d got it wrong. Very, very wrong. None of the people who’d passed through his life in the past 28 years had made him want to reveal anything of himself, but something about her was different. And to top it all off, he’d had sex with her when she’d been drunk and he’d liked it.

Which just about screwed everything up, didn’t it? Alcohol had always been the demon. He’d known exactly what it was, what it did, and nothing had ever altered his opinion on the matter. Until tipsy Lottie Spencer had got loud, and he’d had the best sex of his life right there on the hallway floor with her encouraging him onto an orgasm so powerful he could almost still feel the aftershocks.

The sensible thing would be to get on a plane and get as far away from Lottie Spencer as possible, before he lost his remaining sanity. But he couldn’t do that. There was the club, the auction, and more than anything, there was Lottie herself. She was funny and honest and beautiful, and he liked being around her as much as he liked being in bed with her.

He should walk away. He didn’t want to.

This wasn’t a fling. He didn’t know what the hell it was, only that he was in way over his head, that he wasn’t sure he wanted to be in it, and that he had no idea how to get out of it.

And more terrifyingly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to get out of it. Letting that secret go had changed something inside him. He could still feel his mind trying to adjust, after so many years of fighting to keep the words in. My mother is a drunk. Lottie hadn’t argued, or refused to believe it. She hadn’t tried to defend Marlene.

But she had pushed him away and told him that he didn’t really want to be with her. So all he had to do now was convince her that he did. But even as he thought it, a cold blade of fear sliced through him.

He’d told her his darkest secret. And he didn’t know if he could trust her with it.

Josh dropped Lottie off at work 38 minutes later. She knew it was 38 minutes, because she’d kept her eye fixed tight on her watch, wondering how long a person could actually go without breathing before they fell down dead. A lot longer than she’d realised. Could be a new world record.

Pulling the edges of her denim jacket closer together, Lottie trotted along the narrow corridor that led to her office. Her hangover had returned with a vengeance, her head felt like it was being attacked by an industrial drill, her stomach flipping between a sick burning sensation and ravenous hunger. Last night, things had got…weird.

She’d wanted to sleep with him again, hadn’t slept for wanting it, had got herself drunk for wanting it. And it had made things worse. He’d barely said a word to her in the car. He’d seen her to the front door of the auction house, dutifully paused for the two photographers sitting on the wall opposite, then left.

They’d made more plans, and she found that oddly painful, knowing that none of it was real. Now she knew the truth of the matter—everything he did was about protecting his alcoholic mother from the wrath of the media. She hurt for him, but at the same time, she wanted to scream what about me? Adjusting the position of the folded-up newspaper under her arm, Lottie took a slurp from the bottle of water he’d pressed into her hand and decided not to think about any of it.

All she had to do was get through today without screwing up. She could do that, couldn’t she? Hidden down here in her basement office, if she turned the ringer on her phone down low and concentrated on emptying her email inbox, the time would fly, and no-one would notice that she was wearing last night’s clothes and no makeup, and at some point she might be able to figure out how to deal with the new, lead weight of a secret Josh had hung around her neck.

Marlene Blakemore was an alcoholic, and she couldn’t tell a soul.

She froze when she saw that her office door was open. Leaning forwards, she stuck her head round the door, thinking the worst. ‘Mum! Dad! What are you doing down here?’

‘Waiting for you, darling.’ Helen propped her glasses on top of her head. ‘It’s not like you to be late.’

‘Slept in,’ she offered by way of explanation. Please don’t ask me where I’ve been, Lottie pleaded silently, darting a glance at her father. He’d squeezed his bulk into her chair, and was doing something with her computer. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Your mum and I wanted to have a talk with you.’

Oh, god, not A Talk. Lottie hadn’t felt so uncomfortable since the pair of them had sat her down for the sex talk when she’d been 11. ‘Is it important?’ She opened her filing cabinet and grabbed a handful of papers. ‘Because I’ve got a lot to do today. Marlene Blakemore’s costumes are due to arrive at 10. And then I’ve got to log it all, and get the catalogue entries written.’ She smiled hopefully.

‘It won’t take long.’ Her mum reached out and took her dad’s hand. ‘We just wanted to let you know how happy we are to see you enjoying yourself. And how much we like Josh. He’s exactly what you need, Charlotte. Someone who doesn’t take anything too seriously. Someone fun.’

Lottie dropped the files back into the drawer and eased it closed, though every part of her being wanted to slam it. Josh wasn’t what she needed. He made her make a fool of herself, do things she shouldn’t do, made her lose her self-control. Why couldn’t they see how weak she was? It didn’t do anyone any good. But arguing with them was pointless. ‘Thanks, mum.’

‘You spend far too long cooped up down here.’ Frederick slapped one big thigh. ‘A young girl like you should be out there living her life, rolling in late five days a week. It’s what I was doing at your age.’

She could feel their expectant gazes heavy on her shoulders. She wished Josh was here, to distract them with his easy charm and comfortable chatter, so she wouldn’t have to feel the guilt breeding in her gut. They might find it acceptable, but it wasn’t. David hadn’t died so she could carry on doing whatever she wanted, and to hell with the consequences.

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ she said, leaning against the cabinet and trying to figure out the magic words that would make them leave. She knew they meant well. She knew she should be grateful that they were so reasonable, so understanding. But her head hurt like hell, and her emotions were already too close to the surface, and she didn’t have the strength to pretend. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, closing her eyes for a second, ‘but I’m horribly hungover and I just want to sit at my desk and die for a bit, if you don’t mind.’

Her desk chair creaked, then she felt a firm kiss being pressed to the top of her head, smelled her dad’s familiar spicy cologne. ‘That’s my girl. Come on, love, let’s leave her to suffer in peace.’

There was plenty of suffering, but not a lot of peace. Fuelled by gallons of overly sweet tea and the assortment of greasy sandwiches that her dad delivered at regular intervals, Lottie managed to deal with the arrival of Marlene’s costumes, which turned up in a truck. She counted 27 in total, including eight couture red-carpet gowns that made her acid-yellow number seem dull in comparison. Delicious silks in rainbow colours, with beadwork that had to be seen to be believed, all with matching clutch bags and delicate shoes.

She called in a professional photographer for the catalogue photos, her skills too limited to do the gowns any real justice, and by lunchtime she was starting to feel better.

And then her mind turned to Josh and stuck there. Carefully positioning the train of an emerald-green gown so that the Chinese dragons embroidered on it could swoop and soar freely, she felt a sudden heave of distaste. The dress was gorgeous, yes, but it was a facade. Behind the glitz, the glamour and the fame had lurked something dark and unpleasant. She wondered what Josh had been like as a little boy, what his life had been like living with parents who, by the sounds of it, had been a complete nightmare.

Her own childhood had been picture-perfect in comparison. A stable, loving family, living together in a gorgeous, cluttered semi in Richmond. Parents who had the strongest relationship she’d ever witnessed. David, her annoying older brother whom she’d hated and adored in equal measure. She’d been spoilt, she realised suddenly. She was spoilt. Possibly even spoilt rotten.

By half two she’d measured enough of the dresses to confirm that she’d never fit into any of them and read 217 emails. She’d tidied her desk, watered the spider plant and slicked on a little makeup from the stash she kept in her desk drawer.

The sky hadn’t fallen in. The business hadn’t fallen apart because she hadn’t been at her desk by nine, and her parents weren’t mad at her. There was clearly something very wrong with the world.

The walls of her office were too close today, too near, and the air smelled old. She had to get out of here. A few hours on her own, away from everything that reminded her of this place would help clear her head. She grabbed her bag and jacket, switched off her computer and headed upstairs before she could change her mind. She skidded to a halt when she saw Rachel behind the desk. How could she have forgotten that the receptionist didn’t work afternoons anymore?

‘Skiving off?’ Rachel asked, opening the sign-out book and handing her a pen. She was about as subtle as a brick.

Lottie scribbled her name. ‘I’m ill.’

‘You do look a bit rough,’ Rachel agreed, as the front door opened and someone walked in. ‘Well, well. What have we here?’

Lottie felt her skin tingle. ‘Nothing for you,’ she warned Rachel, shouldering her bag. She turned to face him. ‘Josh. Hi.’

He tucked his hands into the front pocket of his jeans. ‘Hi.’

‘The dresses arrived. They’re downstairs. I’ve catalogued everything, and a photographer came in to do the pictures. Do you want to take a look?’ The urge to get him away from Rachel gripped her hard and fast. For some reason, she didn’t want the two of them to talk.

‘If he wants to go downstairs, he’ll have to sign in,’ Rachel pointed out, rummaging in her desk drawer. ‘And you’ll have to sign back in too.’ She slapped the book back on her desk, and made a big show of searching for a pen.

‘Fine,’ Lottie snapped. ‘Rachel, this is Josh Blakemore. Josh, this is Rachel. She’s our valuer, also known as Madam Nosey Knickers.’

‘Guilty as charged,’ Rachel said. She cast a thoughtful eye over him. ‘You’ll do.’

Josh looked taken aback. ‘Do what?’

She smiled mysteriously. ‘Don’t worry about it. So, where are you two lovebirds going tonight?’

‘We’re going to a fashion show,’ Lottie informed her tightly, shooting Josh a desperate look. ‘And we’re not lovebirds. It’s just for the publicity.’ Her heart gave an odd little bump. None of this was real, she reminded herself, so it shouldn’t matter what anyone else thought of him, or the idea of the two of them together.

‘Actually, that’s tomorrow,’ Josh said. ‘We haven’t got anything planned for tonight.’

‘So you’re staying in?’ Rachel flicked her eyebrows up suggestively. She set her elbows on the desk and leaned forward, a satisfied grin on her face. ‘Good plan. You should know, Josh, Lottie likes to watch action films. The more explosions the better. And she pretends to be healthy, but she can’t resist mint-choc-chip ice cream with those little coloured sprinkles you get on cakes at kids’ parties.’

He grinned. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

Rachel leaned back in her chair, her face suddenly serious. ‘You know, I’ve known Lottie a long time, Josh. She’ll probably kill me for saying this, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen her let her hair down, and I like it. I like it a lot.’

‘I aim to please,’ he replied, but his voice was tight, and the air twanged with awkwardness.

Fidgeting with the strap of her bag, Lottie tried not to be annoyed. She was tired, the mere mention of ice cream had her salivating, and watching Josh and Rachel together was making her twitch. Stopping the flicker of her right eye with her index finger, she thought about a warm, sandy beach with palm trees and azure water and not another person around for a million miles. She tried to steady her breathing, and to stop the nervous sweat under her arms using the power of thought.

Then Josh came strolling into her imagination wearing nothing but a smile and beckoning her with a come-hither finger, and her hormones went into overdrive. Stupid self-help books and their stupid suggestions.

Lottie opened her eyes. She knew defeat when she saw it. ‘Well, I’m going now. I’ll see you tomorrow, Rachel.’

She stomped to the door, seized the handle and pulled it open, desperate for some fresh air. She felt more than a little overwhelmed, and a whole lot teary. What Rachel had said, it wasn’t true, was it? She hadn’t been unhappy. Okay, so her life hadn’t been fun, exactly. It had been predictable and peaceful, and those things were good, right?

Right, she told herself firmly, but she couldn’t stop tears from stinging the back of her eyes as she opened the door and stepped outside. Yes, Josh had brought excitement into her life, and yes, she was enjoying it far more than she wanted to admit. But the whole thing was temporary, and Lottie already knew she was getting far more involved than was wise.

But she couldn’t walk away. Couldn’t get her legs into motion. It was as if Josh had some sort of magnetic quality that pulled her in even when she didn’t want it to. Instead, she gritted her teeth and walked back into the building, straight into chaos. Loud, cheery chaos. ’Charlotte, darling, Josh was about to run out and get you.’ Helen beamed. ‘We’ve decided we should all call it a day and go to the pub.’

She saw Rachel busy shutting down her computer as her dad worked his way through a huge bunch of keys and set the alarm. Josh in the middle of them all, his blue eyes thoughtful and fixed completely on her. She felt the heat of it, of him, hit her toes and zoom all the way back up again, and completely forgot what she’d been about to say. A strange sense of calm overtook her as he held out his hand and she took it without even hesitating. It didn’t feel awkward, or uncomfortable. It felt right.

And she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.