Her Best Worst Mistake

Her Best Worst Mistake

by Sarah Mayberry

Smashwords Edition

Published by Small Cow Productions Pty Ltd

Copyright 2012 Small Cow Productions Pty Ltd

Cover by Kim Van Meter and Analog Creative

ISBN
978-0-9873160-0-4

This book is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given
away to other people. If you would like to share this e-book with
another person, please do so through your retailer’s approved
lending program. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase
it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please return it and
purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of
this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text,
please contact the author at
[email protected]

All characters in this book are fiction and figments
of the author’s imagination

www.sarahmayberry.com

Authors note:

A big thanks to everyone who has
held my hand through this journey. Lisa and Shane, thanks for the
laughs and community kitchen and, of course, my gorgeous cover and
website. Helen, Mauri and Emma, thanks for being my Beta readers.
You are all incredibly generous friends. Thanks, also, to my mum,
Sue, for running her eagle eye over the final format. A big thanks
to Marie Force for her many kind words over the years and her hand
holding through this process, and to Kim Van Meter for help with my
cover. As always, a huge hat off to Chris, who made sure I was fed
and watered while I hunched over the keyboard, and cheered me on
from the sidelines. You really are da best.

Her Best Worst Mistake
is a sequel to
Hot Island
Nights
. While you can safely read either
book with enjoyment without reading the other, I like to think that
together they make a great duo.

And lastly, a huge shout out to all the readers who
wrote to me asking for Violet and Martin’s story. Your kind words
and the pleasure you take from my books are what keeps me going.
Happy reading!

Chapter One

How do I dislike thee, let me count
the ways.

Violet Sutcliffe took a healthy swig from her
champagne glass as she watched the tall, dark-haired man across the
London Hilton’s ballroom. He was wearing a classic black tuxedo,
but he somehow managed to look stuffy rather than suave. But that
was his gift—taking anything stylish, fun or frivolous and stifling
the life out of it.

Martin St Clair glanced away from the elderly man he
was talking to and caught her eye. Even from a distance she could
see his upper lip curl ever so slightly. She arched an eyebrow in
unspoken challenge.

The feeling is entirely mutual, my friend.

In fact, their antipathy had been entirely mutual
from the moment her best friend Elizabeth began dating him six
years ago, and familiarity hadn’t done a damned thing to ease or
ameliorate it. Sometimes, when she was suffering a rare bout of
introspection, Violet wondered if she and Martin didn’t both
secretly enjoy disapproving of each other. Certainly she enjoyed
taking pot shots at him most of the time—anything to rattle his
ridiculously staid cage—and judging by how quickly he usually
jumped into the fray, he wasn’t averse to trading jabs with her,
either.

“
Sorry about that. I got caught up
with one of the Jones-Smythe girls,” Elizabeth said as she rejoined
Violet.

Violet focussed on her friend, turning her back on
the prig across the room. “Can we go yet?”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “You know we can’t. They
haven’t given the speeches yet.”

“
So? No one will notice if we slip
out. We paid for our tickets, they have our money. That’s the bit
they’re really interested in.”

“
Behave. It’s not that
bad.”

“
E, be real. These people are the
walking dead.” Violet’s gaze swept over the well-dressed crowd
attending the Heart Foundation’s annual fundraiser. “Older than
Moses, richer than God and more boring than a truckload of
accountants.”

Elizabeth laughed, then immediately lifted a hand to
her mouth to hide her smile, almost as though she was afraid
someone would take her to task for being amused by Violet’s
irreverence.

Violet eyed her friend with fond frustration. In all
the years she’d known Elizabeth she’d only seen her really let her
hair down a handful of times. She was always on her guard, always
careful, always elegant and considerate and good—more so now than
ever with her wedding to Mr. Stuffed Shirt looming on the
horizon.

“
You look really beautiful tonight,
in case I didn’t say so before,” Violet said impulsively, reaching
out to touch the silk of Elizabeth’s slate blue sheath
dress.

With her deep blue eyes, pale blonde hair and
delicate bone structure, Elizabeth was the epitome of a cool,
reserved English rose. So many people were fooled into believing
her coolness ran more than skin deep, but she was hands down the
most passionate, big-hearted person Violet knew.

Pity Elizabeth felt the need to hide all that passion
from most of the important people in her life.

Elizabeth waved a dismissive hand. “You’re the stand
out, Vi. You always are. That dress is amazing.”

Violet smoothed a hand down the side of her red
velvet Flamenco-style dress and struck a pose so that she showed
plenty of fishnet-clad leg through the slit in the skirt.
Convention had it that redheads shouldn’t wear red—too much of a
good thing and all that—but Violet had never been big on adhering
to convention. She’d worn her deep red hair in a cascading up-do
tonight, and matched her lipstick to her dress.

“
Thought I’d give the Heart
Foundation some bang for their buck,” she said. “Test out a few
pacemakers.”

They both laughed.

“
I have a party we can crash once we
get out of here,” Violet said. “Canary Wharf loft, great music,
open bar... It’s going to be a good one.”

For a moment Elizabeth’s face lit up. Then her gaze
found someone over Violet’s shoulder and she shook her head, the
light dimming from her eyes.

“
Not really Martin’s scene, I’m
afraid.”

The hairs on the back of Violet’s neck stood on end.
She didn’t need to turn around to know that Elizabeth’s fiancé was
approaching. She took a big gulp of her champagne as Martin joined
their twosome.

“
Sorry,” he said, his gaze on
Elizabeth. “I was talking with Lord Burrows and lost track of
time.”

“
No need to apologize. We wouldn’t
want you to miss an opportunity to let him know how much you admire
his good work,” Violet said, her face poker straight.

Martin’s grey eyes were coolly disapproving as they
met hers.

“
As a matter of fact, that was
exactly what I was doing. I happen to admire the Foundation’s work
a great deal.”

“
Plus he’s a member of the Savage
Club,” Violet murmured. “Or perhaps you’ve already found someone to
second your nomination for membership?”

Martin’s cheeks turned a dull shade of brick red.
“I’m sorry if my attempts to better my lot in life seem crass to
you, Violet. Not all of us have the benefit of being born into the
upper echelons.”

His blunt rebuttal to her veiled dig made her feel
small and petty. She opened her mouth to return like for like but
Elizabeth’s hand rested on her wrist.

“
Might I suggest a ceasefire? Just
for the evening?”

Her tone was light but her eyes were beseeching as
they met Violet’s. Suddenly Violet felt ashamed of herself for
baiting Martin.

She wasn’t sure why she’d gone out of her way to piss
him off. It wasn’t as though he’d done anything to provoke her.
Except breathe, of course.

Swallowing the last of her champagne, she abandoned
her flute in the pot of a nearby fern, earning her yet another
reproving look from Martin.

“
Why don’t I make it easier on
everyone and head off to this party of mine?” she said. “You two
will have much more fun without me hanging around.”

Elizabeth’s expression dropped and Violet immediately
felt like a heel for deserting her friend at this dull-as-dishwater
affair. She forced herself to look at Martin.

“
You should sneak out of here, too,
and take E somewhere fun. Reward her for being such a
stoic.”

Martin started to protest, then caught sight of
Elizabeth’s face.

“
You’re bored?” he asked.

“
No. Of course not. This is fun,”
Elizabeth said with a quick smile.

Violet waited for Martin to take her at her word and
plow on with his own plans for the evening, but instead he
frowned.

“
Why am I not convinced?”

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “Because I’m a terrible
actor?”

Martin smiled, the slow curve of his mouth revealing
a dimple in his left cheek.

Violet frowned, as she did every time she saw that
dimple.

It didn’t belong on his face. It was as simple as
that. Dimples were impish and mischievous. They spoke of laughter
and pleasure, not three piece suits and pipes and slippers and
cardigans with elbow patches.

“
If you want to go somewhere else,
we can,” Martin said. “I’ve spoken to everyone I need
to.”

“
We could get a drink somewhere.
There’s that new bar near your place,” Elizabeth
suggested.

“
Why not?” he said
easily.

“
Great. If you’re heading for
Bloomsbury you can drop me at Tottenham Court Station on the way
through,” Violet said breezily.

Ignoring Martin’s frown, she tucked her arm through
Elizabeth’s and started walking toward the exit. He might want to
protest, but he was too much the gentleman to deny her request—and
she wasn’t enough of a lady to be above using his better instincts
against him.

They stopped to collect their coats and handbags from
the cloak room before following Martin to the vintage Jaguar sedan
that was his pride and joy. Wordlessly he held the rear door open
and she gave him a cheeky smile as she ducked past him and into the
car.

“
Cheer up. It’s not too far, then
you’ll be rid of me.”

His mouth tightened but he didn’t say anything.

At the ripe old age of twenty-nine, she should
probably have grown out of goading people for sport, but for some
reason she never tired of poking Martin with a stick to see how
long it would take before he growled and snapped.

“
Where’s this party of yours?”
Martin asked as he slid into the driver’s seat and started the
car.

She was busy rummaging in her handbag for the black
camisole she’d stuffed in there earlier and she glanced at him in
surprise.

“
You’re not driving me all the way
there. It’s the other side of town.”

There was a question in her voice, and for the first
time that night he smiled at her, his eyes meeting hers in the rear
view mirror.

“
You’re right, I’m not. I’m just
trying to work out if Tottenham Court is the best place to drop
you.”

“
It is. Trust me.”

“
I’m afraid I’m not nearly that
naive.”

“
I think we might have to agree to
disagree on that one. By the way, you might want to keep your eyes
on the road for the next few minutes.”

“
Sorry?”

She slipped her arms from her coat sleeves. “I need
to get changed.”

She could see the tension come into his neck as he
stared at her in the rear view mirror. She lifted her hand and
found the tab of the zipper hidden in the side of her dress. She
raised her eyebrows.

Daring him to keep watching.

Martin’s lips pressed together and he shot his gaze
to the front.

“
Don’t worry. Vi’s a pro at getting
changed in small spaces,” Elizabeth said.

“
Yes. I’m sure she’s had lots of
practice,” Martin said flatly.

Violet unzipped her dress and slipped the shoulder
straps off before pulling the camisole over head. She let it slide
down her body. Once she was decent up top, she began to wiggle out
of her dress.

“
As a matter of fact, Martin, I
have. Lots and lots. So many tight places I’ve been,” she said as
she shimmied the dress past her hips. “It’s hard for a girl to keep
count.”

Martin’s gaze remained glued to the road ahead. She
slipped her dress past her knees and ankles, then dropped it onto
the adjoining seat before pulling her red spandex mini skirt from
her handbag. Five seconds later she was smoothing the stretch
fabric over the tops of her thighs.