Once a Bad Girl

Chapter One

‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think this is a fake.’ Lottie tipped the art-deco bronze upside down and picked at the layer of greasy dirt on the marble base with her nail. She angled her wobbly desk light closer. ‘What do you think, Rach?’

‘I think you ought to stop manhandling that naked woman and look at this naked man.’

Glancing over her shoulder, Lottie caught sight of a black-and-white photo of a male model wearing nothing but a towel and a scowl. She grinned. ‘No. Eyes are too close together.’

Rachel stretched out in her chair and flicked to the next page of Guilty Pleasures magazine, an irresistible weekly dose of all things celebrity that neither of them could get enough of. ‘Can’t say I was looking at his eyes.’ She held out a manicured hand. ‘Pass it over.’

Lottie kicked her creaky chair over to the other side of her tiny basement office, held out the statuette and held her breath. ‘If it is a fake, it’s the third one this month. The auction house can’t go on like this. All we’re pulling in is third-rate fakes and the junk from Great Aunt Vera’s attic. We haven’t had a big-ticket item in months. Every time I look at the accounts I could scream.’

‘You worry too much,’ Rachel informed her, as she checked the base with an expert eye.

She rubbed at a smudge on the metal then dumped the figure on the floor by her bare feet. ‘You need to get your priorities straight. How about this one?’ She jabbed at another photo in her magazine. ‘Look. He plays rugby for England, and his girlfriend just dumped him. He’s probably crying into his beer right now, wishing the right woman would walk into his life and mend his broken heart.’

Lottie leaned in and checked out the man in question. He had a certain muscular-thighed charm, she had to admit, but it made no difference. When it came to the opposite sex, her judgement was utterly unreliable, and the auction house was too important to risk making another mistake like her last boyfriend. ‘No. I’d prefer a man who has all his own teeth.’ Or failing that, one who wasn’t sleeping with her just so he could find out exactly which heirlooms his aged mother was trying to sell.

‘Teeth, schmeeth.’ Rachel waved a dismissive hand, then picked up her coffee. ‘I get that you’re married to this place, Lottie, but there’s nothing wrong with a little window shopping. When was the last time you took a day off? Had a night out?’

‘I’ll window shop later.’ Much later. As the youngest and only surviving Spencer child, the responsibility for the auction house weighed heavily on her, but she didn’t mind. It was right that it should, even if it didn’t leave much time or energy for anything else. ‘Right now, I’ve got to get this lot polished and catalogued. The owner wants it in the sale on Saturday.’

‘The owner wants to dump it in the nearest skip.’

Lottie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, then angled her friend a pleading look. ‘You reckon it is a fake?’

Rachel nodded. With her long red hair and short red dress, she could have been stalking across the cover of Vogue, but instead spent her time neck deep in antiques and loving it. If it was worth knowing, Rachel knew it, and Lottie trusted her implicitly. ‘Fake as the boobs of a footballer’s wife. Late repro, and not even a good one. It’s worth maybe 50 quid. On a good day.’

Her insides setting like concrete, Lottie stared hard at the photo hung on the wall above her desk, at the bright-eyed, dark-haired boy and girl stood side by side on the beach, wearing hired wetsuits and matching grins. She and David had been 16 and 13 when that was taken, so sure of themselves, so cocky. They’d learned the hard way that they weren’t invincible.

Gritting her teeth, Lottie let her gaze slide to the phone that sat on the corner of her desk. ‘I’ll have to ring the owner, let him know. Honestly, you’d think after all these years my dad would be better at spotting them.’

‘So let him deal with it. It’s his name over the door, he’s the one who brought it in.’

Lottie rubbed her hands over her face. ‘David could always tell. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense or something.’ And if her brother was still alive, they wouldn’t be in this mess. ‘I wish I had half his talent.’

‘You’ve got plenty of talent.’

‘Talent for screwing up, you mean.’

‘There’s no point dwelling on the past, Lottie. You can’t change it.’ Rachel sat forwards, her hazel eyes sparking with concern. ‘You need a break from this place.’

‘I’m fine,’ Lottie told her firmly. ‘Just a little stressed, that’s all.’ Eighteen months ago, her dad wouldn’t have given the bronze a second glance. Now he was letting all sorts of things slip onto the sales floor. It was almost as if he didn’t care, and that worried her.

‘Even more reason to get out of the office,’ Rachel said. ‘How about we take the afternoon off, go for a stroll down by the river and see what we can pick up. I fancy something early 20s and Spanish.’

Lottie shook her head. ‘You’re shameless, you know that?’ A tiny pang of envy caught her off guard, but she crushed it. ‘Anyway,’ she said, sticking out her chin, ‘I went out with a man last week.’

‘Who?’

‘Barry,’ Lottie replied, sliding her gaze sideways. ‘We went out for lunch.’

Rachel rolled her eyes and made a retching sound. ‘Lunch with Barry is not a date, Lottie. In some countries, they’d call it torture and use it to force criminals to confess to heinous crimes. Please tell me you didn’t let him kiss you, otherwise I’ll have to go and be sick on your behalf.’

‘God, no. It was strictly a working lunch.’

‘Did Barry know that?’

‘Possibly not,’ Lottie admitted. It had been awful and then some, but she didn’t want to let Rachel know how desperate the situation at the auction house was. She hadn’t told Rachel yet, but her job was next in the firing line. It was hard to pretend things weren’t bad when she was reduced to lunch with someone she couldn’t stand simply because he worked at a rival business. ‘I did manage to get some interesting information out of him though.’

‘Without kissing? You go, girl! So what did you find out? That he’s really an alien from Planet Slimeball?’

Lottie pulled the elastic from her hair, then scooped it back into a low ponytail and retied it. ‘Ha. No, better than that.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Apparently, a Hollywood actress has been in touch with them. There’s a big sale on the cards.’

Rachel’s eyes went huge, and she wrapped her fingers tightly round the arms of her chair. ‘Seriously? Did you get a name?’

Lottie nodded, feeling the same tingling rush of excitement that had made her spill her drink all down Barry’s trouser leg. ‘Marlene Blakemore.’

There was a moment of hushed silence, followed by a low whistle.

‘Exactly,’ Lottie said, her chest tight. ‘Imagine if we could get her to sell through Spencer’s instead. She’s so famous, Rach. Just think about the stuff she must have tucked away. How often do Oscar-winning actresses go to auction houses to sell instead of buy?’

‘But no-one has seen her in what, 15 years? Not since her husband walked out, remember that? For all we know, she’s a modern-day Miss Havisham, stalking through her mansion in her couture and diamonds.’ Rachel lifted her hands, wiggled her fingers and made ghoulish noises. They stared at each other for a minute, horrified, then the giggles infected them both.

‘What you need,’ Rachel continued, wiping her eyes, ‘is a great big hunk of a man with biceps like boulders and legs like tree trunks who will lay himself on the line and protect you as you sprint through the rooms, grabbing anything that looks vaguely saleable.’

‘And where am I supposed to find one of those? Hunks R Us?’

‘Look,’ Rachel replied, turning back to Guilty Pleasures and flicking through so fast the pages ripped at the edge. She held it up.

A grainy snapshot showed a man lolling back on a sun lounger, wearing tropical shorts and a baggy t-shirt. Dark glasses obscured his face. ‘Who is that?’

‘Read the caption,’ Rachel ordered her. ‘And then tell me he’s not exactly what you need.’

Taking the magazine, Lottie held it closer and scanned the snippet. Nightclub owner Josh Blakemore, 28, is currently in London as work gets underway on his latest club, and will be attending the Love London conference. This sexy son of a movie star is apparently single at the moment. Get in the queue ladies!

‘That conference is this afternoon.’ Lottie couldn’t believe it. This was it. This was her way in. She stared at Rachel, a crazy idea forming in her head. She couldn’t quite see the boulder biceps or tree-trunk legs, but she didn’t need those anyway. ‘Yes,’ she said, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘He’s perfect!’

Why had he left Miami and white sand and palm trees for this? Pulling in a breath, Josh swirled the iced water in his tumbler and tried to get interested in the conversation the two men next to him were having. He’d been locked in the vast conference room, a futuristic prison of tinted glass and polished steel, for the past two hours. He’d mingled, chatted, laughed when he was supposed to, and now he wanted nothing more than to get out of here, get out of his suit and race his bike across Regent’s Park until his muscles screamed.

Outside, the hot August sunshine bounced off the River Thames, and he wanted to be out in it as it scorched the pavement and burned the tourists. But with a new club due to open in Mayfair in a month, he couldn’t afford to put anyone’s nose out of joint. He’d sunk a good chunk of cash into it, had a lot of staff depending on him, and competition for high-end nightclubs was tough. Pull in the right celebrities and he’d be laughing. Annoy the wrong people here, and he could find his licence pulled. Or worse.

And then there was the girl.

Something about her had set his senses on high alert the second she’d walked in, clutching her bag in a death grip, wobbling on super high heels. Something about her was off. She didn’t belong here, didn’t fit in. The staff had made no attempt to throw her out, so clearly her presence was legitimate, but that didn’t stop his instincts from telling him she was trouble.

Neither did the fact that she had been sneaking little glances at him every time she thought he wasn’t looking. To be fair, he’d snuck his own share back. The dark-purple dress she wore covered her from wrist to knee, but couldn’t hide a very lush figure. She had dark hair piled on top of her head in some sort of messy updo and spent most of her time fiddling with the chain around her neck, when she wasn’t too busy fiddling with her earring, or her handbag.

Twitch, twitch, twitch. Josh rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, gave up on the conversation, and risked another glance in her direction. A prickling awareness coasted through his body as he watched her move across to the buffet table and fill her plate for what had to be the third time. If things were different, he’d have liked that about her, that edge of shamelessness. He’d have liked the way her dress pulled tight across breasts that were high and full, how serious her expression was when she made her selection from the buffet, and how she didn’t belong here any more than he did.

But things weren’t different, and she was just another chancer on the prowl. He was sure of it.

She turned her head and their gazes locked.

His pulse kicked.

Her eyes were violet. Shockingly, piercingly violet.

The tiny triangle of whatever she’d just lifted from her plate flew into the air, and she spun away, crashing straight into an unsuspecting waiter. Glassware flew in all directions as the silver tray he’d been carrying dropped to the floor, flipped once, twice before coming to a rest upside down on top of her feet.

Silence dropped like a bomb. Everywhere around him, people turned and stared, but did nothing to help as the waiter stood there with a look of shocked panic on his face, and the girl wobbled some more on those skyscraper shoes.

‘For god’s sake,’ Josh muttered. Without a second’s hesitation, he strode over to the buffet table.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ he heard her say frantically, as she dumped her plate on the buffet table and crouched down to pick up the tray then thrust it at the waiter, who had the skinny build and help-me reaction of a teenager without much work experience.

Josh set a hand to his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Get some more staff out here to sort this out and go get yourself cleaned up.’

Then he turned to the cause of the trouble. Miss Twitchy stood inches away, scarlet-faced. ‘I can’t believe I did that,’ she said, flapping her hands. ‘I am such an idiot.’

Josh wasn’t entirely sure she was talking to him, because she was staring at the floor and the glasses littering it, but he decided to run with it. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’

Dark, feathery lashes slowly lifted, and those bright eyes came into view. Close up their impact was even more powerful. For a moment, Josh felt like he’d been poleaxed.

‘No. No, we haven’t. I’m Lottie. Lottie Spencer. It’s good to meet you.’ She held out her hand, silver bangles clinking on her wrist.

God, she really was gorgeous. Close up, he could see the pale freckles sprinkled across her cheeks, the soft curve of her mouth which was the same colour as the strawberries he’d watched her eat. He took her outstretched hand and shook it. Fireworks shot up his arm. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lottie Spencer. I’m Josh. Josh Blakemore.’

Her name wasn’t familiar, but he knew from experience that names didn’t mean much. It didn’t take much effort to think one up, to slip on a new persona. Hell, his mother was an actress. He’d learned everything there was to know about faking it before he could walk. And the alarm bells had started ringing the second this woman had walked into the room and eyed him up like a prize bull, as if he was both impressive and terrifying.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That’s nice. This is an interesting building, isn’t it?’ Her voice, all breathy and flirtatious, wrapped around him as she waved a delicate hand at the curved glass that surrounded them like an oversized goldfish bowl. ‘It’s so kind of the Lord Mayor to invite all these people. And the view is simply magnificent from up here.’

Josh couldn’t put his finger on exactly what had started the alarm bells ringing. He only knew that he’d been here too many times before. Being the son of a film star had its benefits, it was true. It also had more than its fair share of negatives.

And if he wasn’t mistaken, he was staring one in the face right now. What did she want? Who was she, really? A journalist? A professional blogger hell bent on digging out the skeletons from his mother’s closet? It didn’t matter either way. From the moment he’d been old enough to talk, people had used him. Pretending to be his friend, then selling his words to the press. Taking photos at his birthday parties, making sure they caught his mother in the background. Sleeping with him for a few column inches.

But he was wise to it now. ‘It looked to me like you were more interested in the buffet table than the view,’ he said, setting a hand on the small of her back and steering her neatly out of the way as a couple of waitresses appeared armed with sweeping brushes and cloths.

‘Well, the food is good too,’ she said, stepping a little too close to him. ‘Would be a shame to let it go to waste. The world is full of starving people, you know. Not that any of them are here, obviously. But that’s not the point.’

Josh picked up a tall, skinny glass from the table and held it out to her, and ignored the sick feeling in his gut. He didn’t like what he was about to do, but he’d found it was the most effective way to deal with women like this. Doing nothing didn’t work. They just came back for more. It paid to be proactive. ‘So how does it feel?’

She took the glass. ‘How does what feel?’

‘Popping your conference cherry.’

‘I…excuse me?’

‘I know everyone here but you,’ Josh said calmly, settling into his routine. He knew his lines off by heart. ‘Definitely your first time. Otherwise you’d have known the rules.’

‘What rules?’

‘Strict dress code, for starters. Bad suits are compulsory. Sweat patches optional but preferred. And definitely no slinky, sexy dresses.’

One dark eyebrow shot up. ‘So where’s your bad suit?’

‘I don’t own a bad suit.’

‘Then you’re the rule breaker, not me. Because this is not a sexy dress,’ she said, lifting her champagne flute to her lips and wrapping one arm around her middle.

‘That depends on your definition of sexy.’ Josh reached out, stroked a finger down her sleeve. ‘How about we ditch the bad suit brigade and go somewhere a little less crowded?’

Her eyes flew wide, and she broke into a spasm of coughing so fierce that he was about to call the paramedics when she straightened up. ‘Are you always this forward, Mr Blakemore?’

Josh looked her up and down and felt like a sleaze. ‘Depends how attractive the woman I’m talking to is,’ he said. ‘You’re rating a nine. I can’t say if you’d hit 10. You’re not naked.’

‘Naked?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Lottie? You’ve been watching me for the past hour. We both know what you want.’

She shook her head, and a long strand of hair fell loose across her cheek. Then she looked at him like he was something unpleasant she’d just stepped in. ‘And what is that?’

‘The same thing I do,’ he replied. ‘You don’t need to pretend, babe.’

‘Oh my god,’ she said, choking out a laugh. ‘Did you seriously just call me babe?’ Her gaze fell on the champagne flute, and Josh steeled himself in preparation. At least this way, he’d have a good excuse to leave. He could hardly stay after he’d been doused in champagne.

But instead, she pressed the glass into his hand. She stared at him, and for a moment Josh thought he saw disappointment in those bright violet eyes, like she’d just tipped out her stocking on Christmas morning and found a rotten apple. Touché, he thought.

Then she shook her head. ‘You’re a creep,’ she said. ‘And I really am an idiot.’ She turned on her heel and walked away, the sway of her hips emphasised by the tight fit of fabric across a firm, round bum.

Josh carefully lowered the champagne flute onto the table. He eased it across the cloth, until it was safely out of the way of elbows and handbags. A strange ache had started up in his stomach, and his heart was pounding too hard, too fast. He was both hacked off and turned on.

You’re a creep. For some reason, those three little words had cut into him and he didn’t like it. She was wrong. She was so wrong.

And he needed her to know it.

Cheek of the man! And to think she’d taken an afternoon off work to travel halfway across London for that. Folding her arms, Lottie hurried across the open-plan corridor towards the glass tube that housed the lift. The grey light filtering through the glass ceiling matched her mood perfectly.

Every step she took in her impractical, increasingly painful shoes pushed her anger up a notch. She’d worn the silver suede peep toes in the vain hope of giving herself a boost in the style stakes, because her pitiful excuse for a dress certainly couldn’t, and she hadn’t had time to do anything with her hair other that twist it up on top of her head and hope it wouldn’t collapse. What a waste of effort that had been.

Everything she’d wanted for the auction house, and, she admitted painfully, for herself, had crash-landed in a town called Disaster. And she could feel the stinging squish of a blister on her little toe.

It all begged the question—where had she got the crazy idea that Josh Blakemore was someone she could do business with?

Or that she could do business with anyone? Ever?

The lift appeared in no hurry to show. She gave up and stomped towards the stairs. She didn’t try to stop her filthy mood from taking over. If anything, she encouraged it.

Better that than let the disappointment and the shame creep in. Heat hit the back of her eyes as tears smacked the front. It was Failure with a capital F. Spencer’s was going to crash and burn in a haze of debt, and it would be all her fault. She’d wanted so badly, so desperately to succeed. Everything had been planned so perfectly.

And then she’d met Josh Blakemore.

He’d given her that cool come on, put his gaze places he shouldn’t, and generally sleazed all over her like a big, gorgeous bag of oozy slime. It wasn’t right. Someone that horrible on the inside should be horrible on the outside, too. He should be short and fat, with a sun bed tan and stringy hair. He’d no right looking so…so healthy. No right to have such lush, dark hair, or such a distinct lack of overhang above his tan leather belt.

But that wasn’t really the problem, was it? No. The problem was her, and the fact that she had simply been unable to handle him. She was…she was just useless.

She took the next step with a stumble. The one after that with speed. The sooner she put some distance between herself and this stupid chicken’s egg of a building, the sooner she could calm down and think.

There had to be another way to boost the business. A long-forgotten Hockney painting lurking in a basement. A selection of Cartier jewels hiding in a box of junk at a car boot sale. Perhaps she should make her first stop a newsagent’s and buy a lottery ticket. It would give her better odds.

Pushing her knuckles against her mouth, Lottie blinked away the film of moisture blurring her vision and made every step careful. Her day was already ruined. No need to add insult to injury by falling down the stairs.

Then a shout came from behind her. ‘Lottie! Wait up a second…’

Oh he wasn’t, was he? Lottie increased her pace, hitching her dress up a couple of inches to gain extra swing. The world would just have to suffer her thighs. Escape was the priority now. She had to get out of this pit of humiliation before she howled like a baby. Or worse.

‘I said wait!’ He was at her side a heartbeat later, spinning in front of her and blocking her path a half breath after that. His bulk made a neat side step impossible, and made worse inevitable.

Her hands shot up. Met the firm, well muscled wall of his chest. The heat of his skin soaked into her palms. For a moment, Lottie couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t do anything but stare at her pale silver nails, her fingers spread like starfish over his broad, hard chest.

Then she ripped her hands away. Cotton that fine should not be allowed, especially not in the vicinity of pecs that well defined.

She dropped one hand to her hip and worked ‘infuriated’ to a level best described as spectacular. ‘Do you mind?’ How dare he make her touch him up like that? How dare he stand there, all height and suit and hard, taut muscle? The tense gleam in his bright blue eyes only served to increase the tension stiffening her spine. ‘What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see you’re in my way?’

‘You walked off before we could finish our conversation.’

‘Sorry,’ Lottie snapped back. ‘I thought I’d made it clear that we were done.’

He turned his head to the side, pulled in a breath, then fixed his gaze on her. Pinned her to the spot with it, in fact. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘I was acting like a creep. I’m sorry.’

‘Wow.’ Lottie gripped the stair rail. ‘Just…wow. Are you serious?’

‘Totally.’

‘Right,’ she said. ‘So this is what you do when the sleaze doesn’t work? Tell women you didn’t mean it, and then they fall into bed with you anyway?’

He rubbed a large hand across the back of his neck. ‘Not quite.’

‘Oh. So what do they do? Jump?’

‘I’m usually glad they’ve gone.’

‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’

‘Hardly. Where are you going exactly?’

‘Back to work.’ Her stomach churned at the thought of it, and she gave an involuntary whimper.

One dark brow rose upwards. ‘Oh. And where’s that?’

Nowhere there was any point telling him about. ‘I’d love to stand here discussing this, but I’m afraid I have things to do,’ Lottie managed, her emotions tumbling. He was like Jekyll and Hyde. The only consistent thing was his undeniable attractiveness and her response to it, and she’d made enough of a fool of herself for one day. She forced herself to move down another step.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said, slipping in front of her for the second time. ‘At least give me a chance to explain.’

Lottie blinked. ‘You don’t need to stand in the way. I’m not going to run off. Not in these heels.’

‘Running off would be a bad idea.’ He glanced down at her feet. ‘I think I’ll come with you, make sure you don’t trip on the stairs. Unless, of course, you’d rather rejoin the conference?’

‘No.’ A shudder worked its way through her body. ‘No, I really don’t want to go back there.’

‘That makes two of us.’

The stairs weren’t steep, but Lottie set her hand firmly on the hand rail, her legs as trustworthy as a tube station pickpocket. ‘You made yourself perfectly clear, Mr Blakemore,’ she said, keeping her gaze firmly on the floor, on the shining steel edge of the million steps that spiralled away in front of her. ‘I got the message.’

He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘I guess you did. Can I ask you something?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Why were you at the conference?’

‘Oh, you know. Networking.’

‘And how did that work out for you?’

‘Disastrously.’ Lottie forced the word out, her left foot hovering over the next step. ‘I can honestly tell you it was the worst idea I’ve had in months. And I’m saying that as someone who bought an electric home waxing kit in the January sales.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s network. I own clubs—12 in total, shortly to be 13. My new place opens in Mayfair in a month.’

‘That’s a pretty classy location.’

‘Believe it or not, I’m a pretty classy guy. Now it’s your turn.’

Lottie pulled in a breath. ‘What is this?’ she asked, flattening her back against the railing. ‘Are you a twin, or do you have some sort of personality disorder? Because I could swear the guy I met before was a total sleazoid, and you’re almost human.’

He had the decency to blush, highlighting those sharp cheekbones, making his eyes look even more intense. It looked good on him. She wished it didn’t.

‘You know who I am,’ he said, matter of fact. ‘It goes without saying you know my mother is Marlene Blakemore. The problem with having a famous parent is that you become a commodity. People use me to get to her, women especially. And nothing scares them off quicker than the suggestion of a dirty fumble in a cleaning cupboard, unless of course they want a fumble in a cleaning cupboard so they can sell that story.’

Lottie followed the logic of this in shocked disbelief. ‘Did it ever occur to you that a woman might want a fumble in a cleaning cupboard for another reason?’

Those baby blues flashed. ‘Such as?’

This was ridiculous. ‘I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Either way, I didn’t come here so I could have sex with you in a cleaning cupboard. It was nice to meet you, Mr Blakemore. I suggest you see a therapist before you try talking to a woman again though.’

And then he did something unexpected. He smiled. He could wipe out whole civilisations with that smile, she thought, as her knees reacted to it, despite her brain screaming at them not to. It was wide and slightly lopsided, and set perfect little creases into his cheeks. A million-dollar smile, taken off the big screen and put right in front of her. How any woman was supposed to remain upright when faced with that was beyond her, but she managed it. Just.

‘So why are you here?’ he pressed, digging blunt fingers into the knot of his tie and easing it free. ‘Other than for the food, obviously.’

‘You won’t like the answer,’ Lottie told him.

His perfectly sculpted jaw hardened, and all traces of that smile vanished. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think I would.’

‘I work for Spencer’s Auction House,’ she said, the words unexpectedly painful. ‘We…I heard a rumour that your mother is looking to sell a few items. I came here to try to find out if it’s true.’

‘And if it is?’

‘Then I’d try to persuade you to get her to sell through us. Obviously we both know I’d be wasting my time.’

Tightening her grip on the handrail, Lottie moved to the side and negotiated the next step. And the next one.

One large hand locked onto her right shoulder and stopped her. ‘Just tell me one thing. How did you find out?’

If he slid his index finger a fraction further in, he’d be able to feel the pulse in her neck. And no way did he need to know how fast it was going. Lottie pulled in a sharp breath and desperately willed herself to lie. She failed. ‘Marlene had a meeting with a specialist at Christie’s last Thursday. I know someone who works for them. He talked.’

The pressure from his hand increased. ‘So you thought you’d put his job at risk by acting on that information.’

Guilt poked her, but she refused to let it in. ‘This is a cut-throat business, Mr Blakemore. Was Spencer’s under consideration?’

His hand dropped away. ‘Not that I’m aware of, no.’

‘And why would it be? The business is a mess. The building needs a six-figure makeover for starters.’ Awkwardly negotiating another step of the endlessly curling staircase, Lottie pressed herself tightly against the side to let a harassed looking woman in a black trouser suit dash past. ‘We’re losing staff hand over fist, and most of the stuff coming through the door isn’t even fit for the charity shop. We’re hardly what you’d call high end. Not any more.’ She huffed out a sigh. It had hurt to put those facts into words and say them out loud. ‘I’ve never been to a conference before, and I totally screwed it up. I called you a creep, for goodness’s sake. What sort of an idiot does that?’

‘I was acting like a creep.’

‘That’s beside the point. I should have handled it. But did I? No. How am I ever going to survive in business if I can’t handle a bit of inappropriate flirting?’

‘I’m probably going to regret this,’ he said, ‘but come for a drink with me and I’ll tell you.’