SAFFRON EVERHART STARED at the obscenely large, hideously expensive bouquet of flowers on her desk and her heart dropped into her stomach. This was going to be much more difficult than she’d ever imagined.
Over the years she’d learned to decode the levels of hell associated with the gifts that arrived on her desk on any given day.
Flowers meant prepare not to sleep for the next seventy-two hours. Flowers and a gift certificate to the most exclusive spa in Switzerland meant pack a bag and have someone water your plants because you won’t be going home for a week. The last circle of hell was reserved for flowers and jewellery. These days the sight of precious gems made her shudder. She had three diamond bracelets, a Harry Winston pink diamond necklace with matching earrings, and a diamond and sapphire brooch she absolutely hated the sight of simply because of the blood, sweat and tears they’d wrung from her.
So, in a way, the flowers, as breathtaking and stomach-hollowing as they were, were a blessing simply because they had no accompaniment.
Still...
She set the Waterford crystal vase down at the farthest corner of her desk, curbing the urge to caress the soft petals of the hothouse lilies she knew had come from a florist who catered to a handful of exclusive A-list clientele. Just as she resisted the urge to lean forward and inhale their bewitching midnight-breeze scent, or be bowled over by the knowledge that each of the thirty long stems in the gigantic vase cost over a thousand pounds.
She rose from her desk, ignoring the sensational view of London spread out in rare sun-splashed splendour below her, and pivoted to face the double doors of the office adjoining hers.
The breath she took was shaky and weak, her clammy hands and churning gut a world removed from the image she strove to achieve. The image her straight spine and impeccable clothes projected.
More and more, that set of doors had seemed like the summit of Everest, fraught with dangers that screamed at her to turn back. Except she couldn’t.
Not just yet.
But she’d delayed enough. Two whole months to be exact. It was time to take the final step.
Time to put that one night, that astoundingly risky dive into temptation that had set in motion events that made her heart dip each time she allowed herself to think of it, behind her.
Time to take back control of her life before it was too late.
Before she could compel her feet to move, a knock on the outer door stopped her. She turned, her stomach dropping to her toes at the sight of the smartly dressed courier heading purposefully towards her. Bicycle couriers and messengers weren’t allowed above the fifteenth floor. She was on the forty-ninth, one step from the highest floor in the building owned by the richest man in the world.
And the man who was heading her way reverently clutching a black velvet briefcase with the logo of the Queen’s jeweller proudly emblazoned on it was the furthest you could get from an ordinary courier.
‘No.’ The word was ripped from her throat, accompanied by several self-preserving steps backward, because, unlike the tennis bracelets and the other priceless gifts, this jeweller, this delivery signalled a whole new playing field. The kind that warned you to kiss your soul goodbye. That clammy hands and an inability to breathe properly would be the least of her worries if she gave into what was unfolding.
‘No, no, no.’
The courier paused halfway to her desk, his gaze befuddled. ‘Beg your pardon, miss? Do I have the wrong floor? I have a delivery for a Miss Everhart. Can you redirect me if this isn’t the right office? I’m afraid I’ll need a signature from her.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I mean, yes, you’re in the right office but, no, you don’t need a signature. You won’t need one because you won’t be making a delivery.’ She was aware her voice bordered on hysterical but she couldn’t help it. ‘The gift is being returned,’ she added for complete and undeniable emphasis.
His nervousness increased. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. There’s a non-returnable, non-refundable condition attached to the gift.’
‘That’s not true,’ she stated firmly. ‘I’m Miss Everhart, and I’ve dealt with your establishment before. I know for a fact that’s not the case.’
Sweat beaded on his forehead. Saffron almost felt sorry for him. ‘Well...yes, miss, in most cases it is. But not this time.’
‘Why not?’ she demanded, but deep down, she knew the answer.
‘Because the client specifically requested it.’
She resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut in panicked exasperation because...of course he did. The man could outthink the shrewdest opponent without breaking a sweat, could execute a dozen chess moves in a dozen games simultaneously while lounging behind his desk with his eyes shut. Why she’d think he wouldn’t use such a contingency on this occasion was almost laughable.
But Saffron wasn’t in the mood to laugh.
Her gaze dropped to the case, her stomach knotting tighter. If it’d held a nest of deadly scorpions, she would’ve been more welcoming.
The courier cleared his throat. ‘If I may say so, Miss Everhart, this is no ordinary piece. I believe permission was sought, and given, by Her Majesty for her necklace to be replicated. It’s one of the most exquisite pieces our establishment has had the privilege of creating.’ His tone bordered on reverence, his bewilderment at her reaction evident.
She didn’t doubt him. But the reason for its appearance in her life was blaring thunderously in her ears, blocking everything save for the fact that if she didn’t refuse this, if she delayed taking control of her life, she would be lost for ever. She’d already given four years of her life. Lived on the edge of her emotions. She couldn’t give another day. Another minute.
The
