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 Cassie, 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 glass.
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 pissed 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 pass 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 impassive 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.’
‘No.’
‘Livy, I’m asking you nicely.’ There’s an edge of desperation in his tone which makes me swivel on my stool to face him. His face is straight, but his eyes are pleading. ‘Let me fix this.’
He is begging, but he’s just confirmed that there is, indeed, something to be fixed. ‘What needs fixing?’ I ask.
‘Us.’ His one-word answer is spoken quietly. ‘Because there’s no me or you any more, Livy. It’s us.’