I would prefer not to be continually interrupted by inane messages while I am at work.
Then you should have stayed at home. Have you remembered to eat something today?
Maybe she should have stayed at his flat. An afternoon in Emile’s apartment sounded infinitely more appealing than working her way through the stack of EU directives on her desk. They’d sprawl over his vast sofas, maybe laughing at an old movie together or bickering over something trivial just for the fun of it. At some point, laughing and bickering would converge, as they always seemed to, and then there’d be that delicious moment when the atmosphere changed. They’d move closer together, he’d slide his hand into her hair, or she’d slip hers underneath his shirt. They’d forget whatever they’d been disagreeing about and then they’d forget everything except the intensity of the present moment.
God, she was hopeless. She switched off her mobile and dumped it into her bag. For approximately ten seconds, she managed to concentrate on the contract she was supposed to be assessing for EU compliance. Then she started wondering what innuendo Emile would read into EU compliance and all hope of concentration was blown.
With a loud sigh, she pushed her chair away from her desk.
“I’m finishing early,” she told her assistant. “I’ll take the rest of these home with me.”
…
It felt damned good to get out of his apartment. The doctor had been pleased with his progress this morning and given Emile the nod to start putting some weight back on his foot. It was the first tiny step towards recovery. So he’d called Raf to celebrate, and now they were comfortably settled in the worn leather chairs of the Munroe, his favorite London bar.
He’d texted Theresa, telling her to join them when she finished work. That was going well, too. She was spending more nights than not at his apartment, and somehow they’d worked out how to have actual conversations without too much bickering or flirting. And she hadn’t mentioned that damned pre-nup once since he’d come out of hospital.
His leg was comfortably propped up on a low table and he’d given a substantial tip to a pretty blonde waitress who was keeping them well-supplied. Raf had brought a couple of the other guys from the club along. One of them had produced a pack of cards, so now they were halfway through a semi-serious game of poker.
Emile checked his hand. Kings over nines. He chucked another fifty in the pot. Raf shook his head and threw his cards on the table. Jimmy shot Emile a shrewd glance.
“I’ll see you.”
He laid the cards down. Jimmy sighed loudly and chucked his hand on the table. “One day I’ll learn.”
Emile gathered up his winnings and signaled to the waitress. “Bring us another round.”
He was on mineral water out of deference to the strength of his painkillers. So he couldn’t be seeing things. Which meant that coming towards him, concern plastered all over her face as if she’d painted it on with a trowel, was Prada.
“Emile!” she squealed.
He shuddered and muttered to Raf, “Protect me.”
“Oh, darling, I was devastated to see you’d hurt yourself.” She slid between the chairs and perched on the edge of the low table, giving him a perfect view down her cleavage.
What had he ever found attractive about this woman? Everything about Prada was fake—her tan, her tits, and even her name.
“I’m fine.”
But she was cooing and sighing, petting his bandaged foot and then turning baby-wide eyes on him. “Poor darling. How can I make it better?” She leaned forward, pursing her lips, ready for a kiss.
Emile flinched and ducked his head out of the way just in time. But Prada was persistent. She launched herself into his lap and curled her hand around his neck, pulling his face back towards hers.
“Isn’t that better, darling?”
“Yes, darling. Isn’t that better?”
Thérèse. In ice-cool lawyer mode. Thank God. Emile smiled at her with relief. Raf had been useless at protecting him from Prada, but he was certain that Theresa would be well up to the task, except she wasn’t looking at Prada. Her eyes were cool with disappointment, and they were focused wholly on him. He pushed Prada’s hand away.
“You’re supposed to be resting. Remember what the doctor said,” Theresa said.
He shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”
“I can see that,” she said with a pointed glance in Prada’s direction. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
He hadn’t guessed that she’d be jealous for him, and even though there was no reason for it, he rather liked it. He patted Prada’s thigh. Theresa bristled visibly. Emile bit back his smile.
“Prada was just commiserating on my injuries. Off you go now, sweet.”
Theresa’s eyes rolled at the endearment but she didn’t say anything until he’d levered Prada off his lap and sent her reluctantly in search of other prey.
Emile patted the arm of his chair. “Come and sit down.”
She didn’t move. Instead, she glanced round at the others, taking in the remnants of their poker game on the table.
“Want to play?” he said. He’d bet she was brilliant at poker. She could hide anything behind that cool, professional facade.
“No, thanks. I assume you’ll be okay to get home by yourself.” She nodded towards the crutches that lay by Emile’s chair. One of the other guys laughed. Emile’s lips twisted. Had she forgotten that she was supposed to be his wife? She couldn’t just walk out on him in front of the guys.
“I would prefer not to.” He gave her a slow smile and held out his hand. “Thérèse?”
“I have work that I need to do.” She indicated her briefcase. “I’m going.”
What the hell was she playing at? Why come if she was just going straight home? Hell, she was already halfway to the door by the time he’d levered himself upright on his good foot. With one crutch and the other hand free to balance against chairs and walls, he went after her.
…
“Wait.” Emile’s voice came from behind her.
She stopped walking but she didn’t turn to face him. There wasn’t any point. Her response to Prada had been totally irrational. She knew that. She knew it, and yet, she couldn’t stop the surge of jealousy when she’d seen another woman sprawled over Emile’s lap.
“What is the matter with you?” he said in a savage whisper that sent shivers through her.
She spun round, finding his face just inches from hers and etched with fury she’d not known he was capable of. “What is the matter with me?”
“Walking out. Showing me up like that.”
Of course he’d care about what his mates thought. Not how he’d made her feel. “I wasn’t the one with another woman plastered all over me.”
He slashed his free hand through the air, dismissing Prada with the gesture. “They know Prada. They know she is nothing to me.”
“Does Prada know that?”
He shrugged. “We are married. She will have to learn.”
“By crawling into your lap and kissing you? Great way to teach her a lesson, Emile.”
“It wasn’t like that. Look, just come and have a drink, then we’ll go home.”
“We won’t be going anywhere,” she said with heavy emphasis. “I have work to do.”
“How convenient for you,” he snarled. “There’s always work to hide behind, isn’t there?”