Chapter Five

      ‘That didn’t take long,’ Dorian said with a laugh.

      I gazed in the mirror at the tall, brown riding boots. ‘No. It didn’t. I adore boots. I have a bit of a …’ I let my words peter out, coughed to clear my throat.

      ‘A bit of a what?’ I could sense him smiling though I wasn’t looking at him.

      ‘A bit of a fetish,’ I said in a rush. ‘Not that I have to wear boots to have sex –’ I bit my tongue, cutting myself off before I could groan with embarrassment. ‘I mean … my God, why did I say that aloud?’

      ‘To make my day?’ He leaned against the wall and his eyes did another sweep of me. Head to toe, hovering right where one would expect a man’s gaze to hover. I was getting used to being assessed by Dorian Martin. Not only was I getting used to it, I was starting to appreciate it. The flex and tremble in my belly and the sudden need to shift my stance and squeeze my thighs together were clues.

      ‘I’m glad I can amuse you,’ I said.

      ‘Not just amuse. You intrigue me too. You care for your grandmother and run a tight ship and seem to take responsibility very seriously. Not to mention you seem uncomfortable being the centre of attention.’

      I nodded, feeling quite uncomfortable just then. ‘True, true, true. Though taking care of my grandmother is no biggie because she watches out for me too. Since my mom –’ I shook my head at the mention of my gran and my mom. Tears were building in my eyes and I blinked hard to keep them down. The bizarre day was doing strange things to my emotions.

      I rushed on, ‘As for taking my job and responsibility seriously, how could you not? I mean, who wouldn’t?’

      He raised his hand. ‘Me for one. Why do you think I’m trying to redeem myself now?’

      ‘Oh – I’m –’

      ‘No need to be sorry. It’s a true story. I was a – what do they call it? – an incorrigible minor and now I’m not. Now I’m trying to be … a man.’ He waved a hand at me. He plucked a pair of buttery leather boots from a perch and idly turned them over. ‘What size do you wear?’

      ‘Eight and a half,’ I said, my tongue suddenly sticking to the roof of my mouth.

      ‘Will you try these on for me?’ He held them out.

      ‘I will, but you can’t buy them for me,’ I said. I had no idea why I said it.

      He barked out a laugh and shook his head. ‘Not impressed by money. It’s my favourite thing about you. You wouldn’t let me buy them for you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I barely know you and you don’t owe me anything.’

      ‘It wouldn’t be because I owe you. It would be because it would make me happy. I have a lot of money. Which means I want for nothing. Buying stuff for yourself gets boring after a while. Buying things for people who think of others first and themselves last is wonderful. You think of everyone, Clover. How about you let me think of you today? Just this pair and the ones you have on. And I promise, Scout’s honour –’ he held up one hand in the Boy Scout sign ‘– no more.’

      I sighed. They were spectacular and probably two months’ pay and … I took them. I liked the feel of the leather under my fingers, but it was the words he’d given me along with the boots that warmed my heart. A man appreciating me for who I was fascinated me. That was what impressed me about him, not his bank account.

      ‘Those are spectacular,’ he said, when I slipped them on and tugged them high.

      They were. The heels weren’t too high or too low. They felt as if they’d been made for me. The sudden rush of emotion at the gift surprised me, though.

      ‘Are you crying?’

      ‘No,’ I said, quickly turning from him. I wiped my eyes, wondering if there was any way I could get out of this without him knowing.

      ‘Do you feel overwhelmed?’

      The question was startling and then the lights flickered and something crashed and I jumped, a scream ripping out of me despite my best efforts to contain it. That night, that noise, the fear of it all came rushing back fast and furious. It rarely happened but when it did I was no longer an adult in charge of her life, herself and often others. I was eight years old, home alone and terrified.

      I felt the wild trembling start, the bone-deep helplessness that always seemed to arrive with that memory. Usually I dreamed of that night so I awoke alone and shaking, which was fine. No one there to see my fear or my embarrassment. It was ages in my past. I should be over it by now.

      ‘Hey, Clover, hey,’ he whispered, pulling me in. I marvelled at the heat of him again. The man was standing there in jeans and a tee and he was keeping me warm. ‘What is it? If it’s the boots, my God, fucking take them off and I’ll never make you take boots from me again.’

      I started to laugh and felt his firm body relax. He’d been trying to defuse the situation and his body language said he felt relief. I let myself wrap my arms around him as he stroked my hair. His lips brushed my ear and he whispered. ‘It’s not the boots, is it?’

      I shook my head and shut my eyes. He smelled like warm man and kindness.

      ‘Do you want to tell me what it is?’

      I shook my head.

      ‘Is part of it your grandmother?’

      I pulled back and nodded. ‘Yes. Part of it.’

      ‘But not all of it?’ His dark eyes studied me and I realised that at some point the lights had resumed their full brightness.

      ‘No, not all of it,’ I admitted. I held my breath, waiting for him to press or pry. He