Daisy lived in the specially built three-bedroom apartment built over the vast garages. Where would they go if her mother decided to sell? Where would her mother go? Was she really ready to leave the place she had spent years loving and tending so that it thrived as a home. What if Jared decided that one day he and Amanda wanted to come back to the UK? Surely as the eldest of the Kings, the house reverted to him? The will-reading had probably gone through this, but at the time she hadn’t really paid attention. The only specifics she’d registered were that KPC wasn’t affected and that Jared, Sephy and she had each received a letter from their father.
She shivered and walked to the next department store, determined to move away from thoughts that tugged at the veil of numbness she had got so good at wearing since her father’s death.
Work. Work was what would see her through. Work was the only fitting way to honour her father and feel his loss less.
Sephy and Jared had already opened their letters.
She wasn’t ready yet.
Not that she had to ever open the letter, she counseled herself as the curtain of grief threatened to descend.
All the time she kept the letter sealed, his silence wasn’t final.
Nora exhaled to try and loosen the tension. Hopefully while her mother was in New York helping with Jared and Amanda’s wedding plans she’d forget all about the idea of selling.
As her breath formed a foggy circle in the window of the store in front of her, she lifted her hand and, with her sleeve, brushed the condensation clear. She didn’t have time to think about something that might not even happen. All she had time for lately was to deal with what was immediately in front of her while she kept all her work plates spinning in the air and right now, what was in front of her was what to send the knight-errant? Suddenly she spotted a square glass vase and, smiling, she realised she knew exactly what to fill it with. Back at the office, she unpacked the half-dozen silk ties and arranged them in the glass vase. Tying a ribbon around the vase, she added a gift tag and wrote: ‘Thank you for all your help today. These are more practical than flowers and will last longer. Nora King.’ She put the unusual arrangement into a presentation box and phoned a courier to have it delivered.
The next morning Nora was at her desk struggling with her concentration levels when her mobile phone rang. Answering it, she took a fortifying sip of her vanilla latte, ‘Mmmn,’ it was good.
‘Interrupting something?’ said the relaxed, earthy baritone into her ear.
Nora smiled to herself as her stomach, recognizing Ethan’s voice, performed a perfect scoring six in the vault.
‘Who is this?’ she teased.
‘You always send gifts to men you don’t know?’
Ha. She wondered what he would have to say if he had even an inkling that she’d been toying with turning up at his hotel with a bottle of champagne, a pair of shoes and a very different kind of gift in mind.
‘Oh.’ She took another sip of coffee. ‘It’s you.’
‘So, thanks for the “flowers”.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Leaving her desk, she wandered over to the full-length mirror on the back of her bathroom door to check her appearance. As she saw the flush on her cheekbones she asked herself what the hell she was doing. She was preening and he couldn’t even see her.
‘In point of fact they’re a bit of a distraction,’ Ethan murmured as if a bit disconcerted her gift had such power over him.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Although, if she was being perfectly honest, didn’t she love the idea of him being as distracted by her as she was by him? Don’t tell me a simple vase of ties is preventing you from having a good night’s sleep?’
‘Little bit, yeah. How about you? Having trouble getting your work done?’
She looked at herself in the mirror. The blush was still there, and now that she peered closer, she could tell her eyes had just a touch more sparkle. How honest should she be? It’s not as if he could see she was primping, or that she needed extra coffee to get her mind off him and onto her work.
Self-preservation kicked in. ‘To be honest I’m kind of swamped with the Moorfield account.’
‘Yes, but are you having trouble getting any work done?’
Damn the man.
‘Little bit, yeah,’ she responded in kind.
‘How about coming out to play, for a while?’
‘Absolutely not,’ she answered quickly. ‘I have far too much to do.’ It was for the best. She’d already issued herself with a written warning containing an embargo on Ethan Love fantasies, which were, she had told herself in her strictest most super-stern voice, all the things inappropriate.
‘Shame. So what did you think of the goodie-bag contents?’
No way. Her gaze flew to her feet in the mirror. ‘I haven’t got around to looking yet.’
‘Liar.’ His soft chuckle had her flushing scarlet. His voice dropped an octave lower, ‘So what did you think? Did I get you right?’
‘I have to go now. I’m incredibly busy. Goodbye.’ She ended the call on the sound of more deep laughter.
Had he got her right? Had he ever. If she’d had to guess, she’d have said that Ethan Love wasn’t a man drawn to the obvious, so she wasn’t surprised he’d avoided black. Instead he’d chosen the most sinfully gorgeous deep wine-coloured patent peep-toe stiletto sling-backs she’d ever laid eyes on. They fitted her feet as though they’d been specially made for her and in them she felt, confident, capable, utterly in control…and the tiniest bit wicked.
Wearing them so wasn’t helping her not to think about him. Did he know that? He’d laughed as if he knew that.
Her phone beeped to signal an incoming text: I’m staying at The Grand. Meet me in the bar for drinks at 8pm. Wear the shoes.
Nora was tempted to tell him she’d wear whatever she damn well wanted to wear, if she was so inclined to meet him, that was.
Her phone beeped again and she looked down at the new text: Little Joke. The shoes are optional. But I do need to discuss Ryan with you.
Oh. Of course he did. Why did she keep forgetting that? She needed not to do that again. Ethan had something he needed to run past her about Ryan and she needed to be alert for that in order to look out for Sephy. Piqued at her ability to keep turning their interaction into something more she texted back: It’ll have to be 9pm. There. That was less like “date” time and more like simply meeting-up time.
At seven minutes past nine that evening Nora walked into the hotel’s bar, wearing the same designer business suit she’d put on after her gym session at 6a.m. that morning. It had been hard enough concentrating on exercising knowing Ethan owned the private leisure club in the basement of her building, but she wasn’t changing for Ethan Love. This wasn’t a date.
Okay, so she’d kept on the shoes he’d picked out for her, but
