Her Client from Hell (5 page)

But she was glad she’d walked away and saved herself from the embarrassment of a one-night stand. Or the excitement of being with someone—with him—who knew how to do intense and even shyly funny and who was concerned about her safety and was sex on a stick. Who made her feel sensual and wanted and who was interested in her. Even if only for one night.

She was glad, wasn’t she?

Truth was, after one bone-melting kiss with Jack Brennan she wasn’t sure about anything any more.

FOUR

‘I need to
talk to you, Lizzie. If you’re there, pick up the phone. It’s about the wedding. About the food... Hello? Pick up, Lizzie!’
Damn bad timing
. Jack batted his phone on the seat armrest just as the flight stewardess came over. She had a stern but interested glint in her heavily kohled eyes. Her hand ran down her thigh to straighten her skirt as she crouched next to him, picking up the empty glass of champagne and used hot hand towel.

God bless business class.

‘Mr Brennan, we’re taxiing to the runway; please switch your phone to the off position. Once we reach ten thousand feet you can use the Wi-Fi. But for now—’

‘I know; I get it.’ He clicked the phone off. At least he’d made good on his promise to Cassie—or tried to. But Lizzie kept irregular hours and once engrossed in her art she never even heard the phone ring. Now he was going to be stuck filming for a few days, then locked in an editing suite for the super-quick turnaround he’d promised. But he’d keep trying. This wasn’t exactly the kind of thing he could leave a message about.

Hey, sis, I’m paying for the wedding food because you’re a crap cook. Love, me.

Or
, Hey sis, I’m paying for the wedding food because I’ve been a crap brother. Love, me.

There was a whole host of talking he’d need to do to explain that and his rush of guilt.

‘My name’s Estelle and if there’s anything else I can help you with—anything at all—just press the call button.’ The stewardess rested a manicured finger on the back of his hand and her eyelashes blinked rapidly. ‘Anything.’ The message wasn’t lost on him.

Turning away, he shook his head. Nothing. He didn’t want anything from her.

Which was strange in the extreme, because she was exactly the kind of woman he’d want things from, usually. Smart, independent, uncomplicated.
Serene
. Every step was controlled. Her facial muscles were tamed and unmoving. But that could have been the Botox. Her hands didn’t gesticulate and fill the space as she spoke.

When he’d woken up that morning—after a strangely fitful sleep—he’d been unable to shed the feeling that kissing Cassie had been the dumbest thing he’d done in a while. And at the same time wanting to do it all over again. This time with a second course...and maybe more. Hell, she’d been the first thing he’d thought about as his alarm clock had blared, when most days he was filled with the rush of the day ahead, the love of his nomadic job—no two days the same.

Even the prospect of an exclusive interview with a famously reclusive star hadn’t erased the image of her as she’d turned away. The questions and confusion in her eyes. Things he didn’t know any answers to—and he shouldn’t even try to find them.

So, as he was clearly under par, he wouldn’t jump headlong into making a similar mistake again. Not with Estelle. And definitely not with Cassie.

He looked out of the window and watched London disappear below the clouds and with it he attempted to leave behind the events of last night. The soft touch of her lips against his. The little mewl of delight as she’d pulled him closer. The chaotic whirlwind she created wherever she went, including inside his head.

Especially
inside his head.

He’d been torn between giving in to that sudden bolt of temptation or fighting it until he’d got her home safely. Because he got the impression that Cassie, with her muddle and fuss and her ardent words about his sister’s special day, did believe in the hearts and flowers he so easily decried. So getting interesting in the sack with her would only lead to a bleeding heart, which he plain avoided at all costs.

He was not going to think about her. He was going to sit back, close his eyes and plan, frame by frame, his next assignment so that when he met with Andres, the sound engineer, he’d be one step ahead of the game. Jack prided himself on always being one step ahead of the game.

Unlike Cassie, who seemed to have life happen to her and dragged everyone else along for the ride. That wasn’t what he’d worked so hard for. His childhood years had been chaos in the extreme and he never wanted to go back there again, to bewilderment and pain. No, he liked certainty and planning and order.

At that moment Estelle unclipped her seat belt and started to make her way over, determination lodged in that calm exterior. So she wouldn’t disturb him he delved into his briefcase and pulled out a wad of paper. But when he looked down his stomach tightened. He’d lifted out the folder of Sweet Treats’ menus and did he imagine just the faintest whiff of sugar?

Okay. So the fates were aligning against him. Typical. Just damned great. He hadn’t even realised he’d put that folder in his bag. And so, it seemed, Cassie was playing games with his head even from hundreds of miles away.

Staring at the endless lists of food, he decided he might as well have some recommendations for Lizzie when he finally broached that thorny subject. Maybe if he presented her with such spectacular choices she’d be blindsided to his interference. Irritatingly, though, as he scanned the entrées, his attention was held not by the thought of smoked salmon and cream cheese blinis, but by the woman who was going to make them.

* * *

For once, Cassie was going to be on the other side of the serving hatch and she was determined to enjoy every single second. A sumptuous gala dinner, flowing wine and playing posh dress-up—what wasn’t to like? As she adjusted the straps on her way too expensive but breathtakingly beautiful silver sparkly sandals, she glanced at the large clock above the ornate hotel door.

No. Really? Her stomach clenched. Did an hour past start-time count as fashionably late? No wonder there was no one around but doormen. One approached and asked for her ticket, which she handed over.

‘This way, ma’am. Please be silent as we make our way through the ballroom. The awards have begun.’

‘Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,’ she whispered, as she followed the doorman’s ramrod-straight back across the crowded dimly lit room to her allocated table, all the while trying to keep an eye on the stage, where someone was rambling about public service. Trying to gauge whether she’d missed her sister’s award or not.

‘Your seat, ma’am.’ He pulled back a chair at a large round table set for dinner and she slid quietly into it, noticing that there were two empty seats facing her, where she assumed her sister and husband should be sitting. She nodded and smiled to the other guests at the table, apart from the man next to her—his body turned away from her, facing the stage, and way too familiar. She didn’t need to see his face—every cell in her body jumped awake, knowing exactly who he was.

Jack Brennan.

No
. A sense of dread danced with an eager bounce in her hormones as she took in the messy hair that was the only out-of-control thing in his whole demeanour. The stoic broad shoulders she’d leaned into, the back she’d run her fingers over, all dressed up in a suit that looked as if it came from Savile Row. Or wherever it was that fancy suits came from because, Lord knew, she’d only ever served people wearing them and had no clue where to buy them.

And now she was here next to him, the memory of that kiss manifested into two hot blotches on her cheeks—that were fast spreading into a full-blown rash on her chest. Great. She picked up the evening’s programme and fanned herself with it. Was it necessary to have to carry ice cubes with her every time they shared the same air?

Note to self: enquire as to guest list for Sasha’s future glitzy events.

She scanned around for another empty seat somewhere on another table—but there weren’t any. Briefly considered crawling under the table and hiding out until he’d gone. But the dress was loaned and she really didn’t want to ruin it.

She wasn’t ready for this—to face him after that kiss—she’d planned on talking to him next week by phone—or preferably email. Then bypassing him altogether and going straight to Lizzie. And wasn’t he meant to be somewhere very cold and far away? Although in reality he could have been in outer space and it wouldn’t stop the memory of the heady rush of heat when his mouth had slanted across hers.

And wouldn’t she know it, but being this close to him had her thinking about where else on her body his mouth could slant.

Stop that
. She fanned the programme faster in front of her face—she couldn’t think like that. Slanting was so off-limits.

She forced herself to focus on the speaker on stage but he came to an abrupt end and, as the rapturous applause finished, Jack turned to her. She didn’t miss the quick dip of his eyes to his watch. ‘Good evening, Cassie. Glad you could join us.’

Why the hell was he here? This was Sasha’s night. Not his. An awards evening for her charity work. Why, oh, why had he suddenly become embroiled in her life? She put the programme down and fixed the best nonchalant smile she could muster, after re-clipping an annoying lock of hair that kept falling into her eyes. ‘I know, I know. I’m late again. Don’t look at me like that; I couldn’t help it.’

‘So what pressing culinary emergency happened this time? A cupcake crisis? Pancake pandemonium?’ His suit jacket moulded around tight wide biceps as he leaned forward. The crisp white shirt and dark blue tie gave him an air of sophistication that made her breathless and hot. The world tipped a little as he nodded. He seemed to think, underneath that grumpy irritated exterior, that this scenario was mildly funny.

‘If you must know, I was completing my end-of-year accounts and I got to a tricky bit. Well, a few tricky bits.’ It was all so tricky—none of it made palatable reading. And it had taken her a lot longer than she’d planned. Boy, she wished she’d paid attention at school instead of playing hooky with her friends.

And, even more, she wished she was in a better financial situation to be able to tell Jack Brennan what he could do with his wedding breakfast, if for nothing else than to preserve her sanity and try to erase the memory of those lips on hers.
Go, and be damned, Mr Brennan
. But now she’d confirmed she really, really needed his money. Swiping her hands together, she gave him a self-satisfied grin. ‘Done. Finished.
Finito
.’

His eyebrows rose—impressed or disappointed? She couldn’t tell which. ‘In August? Aren’t they due in October?’

‘Apparently so. So whoop-de-do me. Yay.’ She gave a small fist-pump but didn’t think it prudent to mention they were last year’s accounts, so already ten months late. Mr Frumpy Grumpy would scowl even more. In fact, until she’d received the final notice and threat of legal action that morning, she’d put the whole tax thing to the bottom of her list. But heck, it had been swiftly moved up. And now she’d finished them and sent them and felt, for the first time in a few weeks, a little lighter. So she’d come out hoping to relax and he was going to spoil that. Because how could she relax with that kiss hovering between them? ‘Shouldn’t you be in Iceland?’

‘It was only a four-day job. Got back this afternoon, just in time for this. Nate invited me ages ago and I didn’t want to miss it. Between them, your sister and her husband have raised a lot of cash for special needs kids.’

‘Well, lucky me.’ Glancing at the empty seats, she felt a twinge in her heart. ‘Have I missed them? Please don’t tell me I’m too late to cheer her on. This means so much to her.’

‘So you could try using a watch?’

She tried to stop her shoulders from slumping, not least because her dress was so low-cut she was in danger of spilling her assets on to her side plate. ‘I don’t need a watch; I just need more time in the day.’

The frost seemed to melt a little. ‘You look very different tonight.’

Was it because his eyes had followed the line of her cowl neckline? And he liked what he saw. Clearly. If only there’d been any possible way she could have worn a bra—but backless was backless. The edges of his mouth tilted upwards as she sat up straighter and patted the soft folds of black chiffon fabric against her chest, then made sure the shoestring straps were in place, holding the whole thing together. Tying the damned things at the small of her back had been a feat even a contortionist would have struggled with.

‘Thank you.’ She caught herself staring into those dark eyes for way longer than she should.

He shook his head as if he couldn’t make any sense of it. ‘Sasha and Nate have been backstage most of the evening; Nate did a song and handed out a few awards. If you take the time to read the programme instead of whipping up a whirlwind with it, you’ll see they’re up next.’

‘Oh, good. I’m so glad. I didn’t want to let her down.’

‘Don’t worry. They don’t know you were late. Relax, Cassandra.’ No one ever called her that. No one. It had been something teachers used whenever she was in trouble. But heck, listening to that voice whisper her name, feeling the strange tumbling in her stomach and hot points of raw need in inconvenient places—she was in trouble all right. Big trouble. He poured a large glass of champagne and handed it to her. ‘You did miss dinner, though, but it can be our secret. I won’t tell if you don’t.’

She took the glass from him and had a sip, tried to concentrate on the tickle of bubbles down her throat rather than the tickle of butterflies stretching their wings in her stomach just from being next to him.

This was ridiculous. He was a client. She’d dealt with lots of clients before and none had made her tickly inside. ‘I don’t want to share secrets with you, Jack Brennan.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ The intense stare was mocking and teasing. Serious—yet there was a glimmer of amusement. Once again she got the feeling he was holding back every ounce of emotion, be it humour, anger or desire. The man was the very essence of self-control.

And she was torn between shaking him and kissing him again. Just for a reaction. Something unprepared, spontaneous. Just to see those gilded sparks in his eyes again. The ones he’d had trouble hiding last week. Would the real Jack Brennan please stand up? ‘Yes. Absolutely. No secret-sharing.’

‘Because if you’re talking about the other night...?’

She held up a finger. ‘No. Don’t talk about it. Pretend it never happened.’