One Night: Promised Part 38

'Your clothes are on the bed.'

I turn and find Miller standing in just his boxer shorts, but my mind is too busy racing to appreciate the view. 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome,' he says as he leaves me again. 'Chop-chop.'

Something isn't right. He's turned back into the masked gentleman, being all formal and clipped, which is an insult after our time together, especially the past few days. He's shared something very private and special, and now he's treating me like a business deal again. Or a hooker. I wince at my own thoughts, knocking the flat of my balled fist on my forehead. What's Quaglino's, and why has he lied about it? Uncertainty and mistrust plague me as I fail to prevent my mind from wandering.

I find my phone and pray it hasn't died. I have two bars, and I also have two missed calls . . . from Luke. He's called me? Whatever for? He didn't reply to my text, and that was days ago. I don't have time to think about it. I clear them and load Google, typing in 'Quaglino's' as I make my way back to the kitchen. When my Internet connection finally decides to give me the information I want, I don't like what I see: a fancy restaurant in Mayfair, with a c.o.c.ktail bar to boot. I'm even more wary when Miller strides into the room wearing a black suit and a black tie.

'Livy, I need to go,' he says shortly, standing in the mirror and messing with his pesky tie. It was perfect already.

I leave him behind, perfecting on perfect, and hurry to his room, throwing on my jeans and Converse. I'm suspicious, and I've never been suspicious because I've never had anything to be suspicious about. I don't like it.

'Ready?'

I look up and bitterly register how spectacular he looks. He always does, but a three-piece black suit for a meeting at the club? 'Great,' I mutter.

'Are you okay?' He takes his customary hold of my nape and directs me from the room.

'I'll come with you,' I say, confidence oozing in my tone.

'Olivia, you'll be bored to tears.' He's not in the least bit fazed by my demand.

'I won't be bored.'

'Trust me, you will.' He leans down and kisses my forehead. 'I'll be drained by the time I'm done. I'll need you to cuddle, so I'll come and get you and you can stay with me tonight.'

'I may as well wait here.'

'No, you can pack some clothes and I'll take you straight to work in the morning.'

I scowl to myself. 'What time will you be done?'

'I'm not sure. I'll call you.'

I give up and let him push me onward, down the ma.s.ses of stairs until we arrive at his car in the underground car park. The silence is deathly the whole way home, and when he pulls up outside Nan's, he undoes his belt and shifts in his seat so he's facing me.

'You're upset,' he says, reaching over and giving my cheek a gentle brush with his thumb. 'I have to work, Livy.'

'I'm not upset,' I argue, but it's plainly obvious that I am, although for different reasons than Miller thinks.

'I beg to differ.'

'I'll speak to you later.'

'You will.' He leans over and spends a few moments refreshing my memory on what I'll be missing for the next few hours. It doesn't improve my mood.

I get out and walk up the path to my house, mind racing, quickly letting myself in and shutting the door behind me. As I knew she would be, Nan's standing at the bottom of the stairs with the biggest smile on her face.

'Have you had a nice time?' she asks. 'With Miller, I mean.'

'Great.' I try to match her smile, but suspicion and uneasiness are crippling me. If it's work, then why is he meeting her at a fancy restaurant?

'I thought you were staying the night.'

'I'm going back out.' The words fall from my mouth, my subconscious seeming to make the decision for me 'With Miller?' she calls hopefully.

'Yes,' I reply. Her happiness at the potential news tugs painfully at my fallen heart.

Chapter 23.

I slide from the taxi as elegantly as I can, exactly how Gregory showed me. I was torn by how to dress, but having checked Google, it would seem you don't wear Converse at Quaglino's, nor do you turn up without making a reservation, but I'm not planning on eating. The c.o.c.ktail bar, that's where I'm heading.

The doorman nods and pulls open the gla.s.s door by the giant Q-shaped door handle. 'Good evening.'

'h.e.l.lo.' I straighten my back and pa.s.s him, and then go about brushing down the short pale-blue silk dress that Gregory made me buy. Miller may have disdained my hair and make-up, but I specifically remember him saying he liked the dress. And now my hair is back to golden waves and my make-up is natural again, he should be fairly pleased. If he's with that woman, then I hope he takes one look at me and chokes.

I wince as I take the stairs down to the maitre d', my new nude stilettos pinching my toes. She smiles brightly. 'Good evening, madam.'

'h.e.l.lo.' I pull a confident tone from nowhere, appearing to be a regular in these types of sw.a.n.ky places.

'Reservation for?' She looks down at her list.

'I'm going to settle at the bar for a c.o.c.ktail and wait for my date.' The words roll off my tongue with ease, surprising me.

'Of course, madam. Please, this way.' She gestures towards the bar and leads on, taking me around a corner where I have to refrain from letting out an audible gasp.

A marble staircase comes into view, with polished gold handrails and black Qs linking together to form a bal.u.s.trade on either side, leading down to the huge restaurant, all light and airy, with a stunning gla.s.s vaulted ceiling running down the centre. It's bustling, busy for a Monday night, with groups of people making happy chatter at every table. I'm relieved when I see the c.o.c.ktail bar is on this level, the gla.s.s panels making it easy for me to see below into the restaurant. My eyes are darting around, scanning every corner, but I can't see him. Have I made a colossal error?

'May I recommend the cherry and orange Bellini?' the maitre d' says, indicating a stool at the bar.

I decline her offer of a stool near the back of the bar and take one closer to the end so I can see down below. 'Thank you. Maybe I'll try.' I smile, wondering if I could get away with drinking a gla.s.s of water when I'm in such a fancy place wearing a fancy dress.

She nods and leaves me with the barman, who hands me a c.o.c.ktail menu on a smile. 'The lavender and lychee martini is so much better.'

'Thank you.' I return his smile, feeling more comfortable and at ease now that my body is being supported by the stool.

I cross my legs, keeping my back straight as I peruse the menu, noting the barman's suggestion has London Dry Gin in the mix, putting it right out of the contest. I smile as I remember my granddad constantly battling with my nan over her gin-drinking habits. He always said that if you wanted a woman to break down on you, feed her gin. Then my smile fades as I recall the last time I drank gin myself.

The cherry and orange Bellini has champagne in it, a clear winner by a mile. I point and glance up at the waiting barman. 'Thank you, but I'll have the Bellini.'

'A man can try.' He winks and sets about making my drink, while I swivel on my stool and start searching the s.p.a.ce below again. A quick scan produces no results, so I begin working my way over each and every table, studying the faces and the backs of heads. It's silly. I'd spot Miller's head in a flash mob of a thousand people in Trafalgar Square. He's not here.

'Madam?' The barman pulls my attention back to the bar and hands me a flute, garnished with mint and a maraschino cherry.

'Thank you.' I take the gla.s.s delicately and take an equally delicate sip under the watchful eye of the barman. 'Lovely.' I smile my approval, and he winks again before going to tend to a couple at the other end of the bar.

Turning my back on the bar, I sip the delicious c.o.c.ktail while considering what on earth I'm going to do. It's nine-thirty. His meeting was at nine. He'd still be here, surely? And like my phone's heard my thoughts, it starts ringing from my bag. I panic, quickly setting my drink down and rummaging through my little bag, cringing when I see his name flashing up on my screen. My shoulders meet my ears and every possible muscle in my body tenses as I answer. 'h.e.l.lo.'

'I'm wrapping up shortly. I'll be with you in an hour.'

I puddle at the bar in relief. I can get my overactive imagination and my overdressed body home within an hour. I'm safe and feeling rather silly. 'Okay,' I breathe, taking my drink and having a much-needed slurp. Was I looking at the wrong day in his organiser? In my frantic, rushed state, it's possible.

'It's noisy. Where are you?'

'Television,' I blurt. 'Nan's going deaf.'

'Evidently,' he says drily. 'Are you ready to de-stress me, my sweet girl?'

I smile. 'So ready.'

'I'm glad we've cleared that up. Be ready in an hour.' He hangs up, and I sigh all dreamy and loved up at the bar, quickly necking the rest of my Bellini.

I wave the barman over. 'Can I settle the bill, please?'

'Only the one?' he says, nodding at my empty.

'I'm meeting someone.'

'Shame,' he muses, pa.s.sing over a tiny black plate with my bill. I hand over a twenty on a smile. 'Have a lovely evening, madam.'

'Thank you.' I drop elegantly to my feet and pivot, making my way to the exit, hoping I can flag a cab quickly.

But I barely make it two paces before I'm skidding to a halt. My stomach twists and my skin turns stone cold, sending every fine hair on my body standing upright. He is here. And he's with her. She's just settling back in her seat at the table, her back to me, but I can see Miller's face just fine, and it's straight, as usual, yet I can see the boredom plain and clear. Ca.s.sie is animated, chucking hand gestures everywhere, throwing her head back on continuous laughs and also throwing champagne down her throat. Her hair's coiled into a tight bun on her nape and she's wearing black satin, not your average business meeting attire. There are oysters on the table. And she keeps reaching over and touching him.

'Decided to stay for another?' the barman asks, but I don't answer. I keep my eyes on Miller and back up until my b.u.m meets the stool. Then I lift myself slowly.

'Yes, please,' I murmur, placing my bag back on the bar. I'm not sure how I missed him. His table is directly below, in perfect sight. Maybe I was looking too hard. I think carefully, trying to figure out my next move. Good G.o.d, I'm beginning to feel the rage burning in my gut.

I accept the Bellini that's handed to me, then I find my phone, calling him and holding it calmly to my ear. It starts to ring. I watch as he shifts in his seat and holds his finger up to Ca.s.sie in a gesture to be excused, but when he glances down at his screen, he shows no emotion or shock at seeing my name. He slips it back in his pocket and shakes his head. It's a motion to suggest that the caller is of no importance. His actions inflame the hurt, but worst of all, it inflames the anger.

I drop my phone back in my bag and turn to the barman. 'I'm just going to use the bathroom.'

'Down the stairs. I'll watch your drink.'

'Thank you.' I take in a long, confidence-boosting lungful of air and start towards the stairs, taking a firm hold of the gold handrail when I reach it while praying to the stair G.o.ds that I don't make a complete fool of myself and stumble to my a.r.s.e. I'm shaking like a leaf, but I need to remain composed and poised. How the heck did I find myself amidst this hideousness?

Because I put myself here, that's how.

My steps are precise and accurate, my body swaying seductively. I find it too easy. I'm being watched by numerous men. Coming down these stairs is like the parting of the waves. I'm alone, and I'm purposely drawing attention to myself. I'm not looking anywhere, though, except right at my heart's nemesis, willing him to glance up and see me. He's listening to Ca.s.sie, nodding and saying the odd word, but he's taking slow sips of his Scotch more often than anything else. The resentment cripples me resentment that another woman is getting a close-up of his perfect lips latching onto the gla.s.s.

I quickly divert my stare downward when he casts his eyes to the stairs. He's seen me, I'm certain of it. I can feel glacial blues freezing my skin, but I refuse to stop, and as I reach the toilets, I glance over my shoulder. He's coming after me. I said I'd make him choke, and I think I have. His face is cut with too many emotions anger, shock . . . worry.

I escape into the ladies' and study myself in the mirror. There's no getting away from it; I look ruffled and a little distressed, and the light brushing of my cheeks with my palms turns into light smacks as I try to slap some feeling back into me. I'm in unknown territory. I don't know how to handle this situation, but instinct seems to be guiding me pretty well. He knows I'm here. He knows that I know he's lied to me. What is he going to say?

Deciding that I really want to know, I quickly wash my clammy hands, straighten my dress and brace myself to face him. I'm a nervous wreck when I open the door to exit, but seeing him standing with his back leaning against the wall, looking all p.i.s.sed off, soon sucks up all of those nerves. Now I'm just mad.

I meet his clear eyes with equal contempt. 'How were the oysters?' I ask evenly.

'Salty,' he replies, the hollows of his cheeks pulsing from his ticking jaw.

'That's a shame, but I wouldn't be concerned. Your date's probably too drunk to notice.'

His eyes narrow as he steps forward. 'She's not my date.'

'What is she, then?'

'Business.'

I laugh. It's condescending and rude, but I couldn't give a toss. Business meetings don't happen on Monday night in Quaglino's. And you don't wear satin dresses. 'You lied to me.'

'You've been snooping.'

I can't deny, so I don't. I'm feeling emotion take hold. It's racing through me now, making up for Miller's lack of it.

'Just business.' He takes another step towards me, closing the distance. I want to move back, distance myself, but my heels are cemented in place, my muscles refusing to work.

'I don't believe you.'

'You should.'

'You've given me no reason to, Miller.' I fight against my useless limbs and pa.s.s him. 'Enjoy your evening.'

'I will once I can de-stress,' he counters softly, taking hold of my neck to stop me escaping. The heat of his touch immediately rids my body of the goose pimples and heats me . . . everywhere. 'Go home, Livy. I'll pick you up soon. We'll have a chat before we start with the de-stressing.'

Disgusted and fighting my way from his hold, I swing around and stab at his impa.s.sive face with furious eyes. 'You'll get nothing more from me.'

'I beg to differ.'

I flinch at his arrogance and confidence. I've never slapped a man in my life. I've never slapped anyone.

Until now.

The power of my small palm across his face creates the most piercing sound, the smack echoing in the noisy air around us. My hand is on fire and judging by the instant red mark on Miller's tanned skin, so is his cheek. I'm shocked by my actions, and my frozen body and stunned face are proof of it.

He clasps his chin, seeming to click his jaw back into place. Miller Hart doesn't give much away, but there's no denying his surprise. 'You have a vicious swipe, sweet girl.'

'I'm not your sweet girl,' I retort nastily, leaving Miller rubbing some life back into his cheek. Taking the stairs fast I don't veer left for the exit, the enticement of my Bellini too much to resist. I land at the bar and knock it back quickly, gasping and slamming the empty down, drawing the attention of the barman.

'Another?' he asks, swinging straight into action when I nod.

'Livy.' Miller's whisper in my ear makes me jump. 'Please go home and wait for me there.'