All Bets Are On. Charlotte Phillips
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now here it suddenly was. The chance he needed.
Insider knowledge.
A way into her life where he could then stay put long enough to win the bet and scoop the cash and the kudos.
This year or so in London, the job here, were beginning to pay dividends. Finally a sense of freedom. New place, new people. After the last few weeks he was definitely ready for a new challenge. Arabella had just been a diversion. This would be something else entirely. It was common knowledge that Alice was a workaholic who kept all men at arm’s length. Now he knew that wasn’t what she really wanted, he could use the fact to his advantage. She was just too used to being single; that was all it was.
She needed some persuasion.
‘Alice, listen to me,’ he began.
His voice was gentle and kind, and Alice’s stomach gave a sudden melty flip-flop. Apparently even in the depths of emotional meltdown her body was as receptive to his charm as the rest of the female workforce, who cared only that he looked like an Adonis with his dark-hair-blue-eyes combo and the muscular build and leftover tan from whatever sporty summer holiday he’d taken.
Fortunately she was able to rely on her mind, which knew only too well the kind of man he was.
‘You just need to get out more, that’s all,’ he said, jump-starting her temper, which up to now had been squashed into submission by humiliation and disbelief. She unwound a huge wad of toilet roll and wiped her eyes angrily.
‘I need to get out more?’ she snapped through the door. The simplicity of the suggestion, pigeon-holing all her problems into one easy sentence, infuriated her. ‘Like you, you mean? Your social life is the talk of the post room. You must be barely ever home. I’m surprised you’re able to fit work in. Don’t you ever wonder what the point of it all is?’
There was a surprised silence.
‘The point is to have fun,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m not trying to criticise. I’m just saying that the sun doesn’t rise and set with Innova. When did you last go out? Socially, I mean. For a drink or a meal?’
‘I go out,’ she said defensively, glaring at the back of the cubicle door, imagining him on the other side of it, with his dark tousled hair, crinkly-eyed smile, and his endless string of girlfriends and rampant social life. An image of her own previous evening flashed into her mind. Herself on the sofa, Kevin the cat on one side, stack of work files on the other, laptop open, CSI box set on the TV in the background. Hell, it might as well be an image of any evening this week. This year.
‘When? Where? Who with?’
‘What are you, my father? I see people.’ She frowned indignantly at the closed door.
‘See me, then,’ he said in a low voice and that soft melty sensation bubbled hotly back up inside her. She slid her hands across her middle and pressed hard to make it stop as she groped for a suitable response. Any response.
‘Alice?’ he said. Her stupid heart had begun to beat madly.
She took a deep calming breath.
‘What?’
His voice was low and close. She knew he must be literally right on the other side of the door.
‘If you haven’t dated for a long time and you’re thinking of getting back out there—’
‘I didn’t say that!’ she snapped. Oh, what the hell was she thinking, blurting out all her problems to him? At best he could go back to the office and report that Ice-Queen Ford was having a crying fit over being perpetually single. At worst, there really might be a Page Two of the damn bet pool and Harry Stephens could be right there on it with a big fat stake.
His voice was serious though, steady, making her feel as if he could see perfectly well through her bravado. Her insides felt suddenly squiggly.
‘Because if you were...’
‘Were what?’
Her thumping heart seemed to be working independently of her mind.
Please. Was she actually having a swooning moment over Harry Stephens of all people? After all she’d been through in the past had her body learned nothing? Did her heart have no reservations about reacting to the most unreliable playboy bachelor London had ever seen? Over the past year or so, he’d had more female workers in tears than she’d had hot coffees! She gritted her teeth. Obviously she’d been thrown off balance by discovery of the bet. Her usual defences had been scrambled.
‘If you were thinking about dating again, maybe you’d like to go for a drink,’ he said.
‘With you?’
The question exploded from her lips in the form of a laugh. Because it was laughable, wasn’t it? That after her past experiences she would look twice at someone like him.
‘Your amusement could be construed as an insult, you know,’ he said mildly.
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
Stock answer. No excuse required. Always worked on the run-of-the-mill guys in the office, those that dared broach the aloof distance she kept between herself and her colleagues. She could count the times she’d been asked out at work on one hand and, come to think of it, two of them had been in the last month or so. Her cheeks flushed hotly. Now she knew why—because there was a pot of cash waiting to be scooped by the man who managed to land her. She wondered again if Harry was involved.
‘Of course you can,’ he said. ‘No one works twenty-four-seven. Not even you. It’s only a drink. An hour. Everyone has an hour.’
‘I’m busy,’ she said again. ‘I don’t date.’
In Harry Stephens’s world, of course, no meant maybe. He realised it was a simple matter of finding the right approach. One that might appeal to her reluctance to get out there instead of feeding it. Start small. If she hadn’t dated for years, more than a drink or a coffee was going to seem monumental. And most important of all, offer some kind of incentive.
Make her think he could be part of the solution instead of part of the problem.
‘Just hear me out,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a proposition for you.’
‘What kind of proposition?’
The upset tone had slipped from her voice. He could almost hear the ticking over of her mind, her attention raised because he’d given his question a detached work-style tone.
‘I’m exactly what you need,’ he said. ‘To help you get back out there.’
TWO
There was a snap as the lock twisted back on the cubicle door and then Alice was in front of him. The tears had dried and her face was no longer purple. She looked pale and tired, her eyes red-rimmed from all the crying. Her hair, still partially twisted into its chignon, stuck out at odd angles. She took a deliberate side-step around him and moved across to the sink, putting a good space between them. Harry saw her grimace at her own reflection before she turned her gaze back on him.
As her eyes narrowed a spark of sudden heat zipped up his spine. Obviously because Alice Ford didn’t do vulnerable, he decided, that was all. She did polished and professional. He was bound to react to such a change in her.
‘What do you mean, you’re exactly what I need?’
Her arms were crossed defensively, her face totally suffused with suspicion and he knew that convincing her he was genuine was going to be tough. Then again, tough had never caused him a problem before.
‘What if I were to offer you my services?’ he said.
She was looking at him as if she thought he might be crazy.
‘Your services? As what exactly?’
He shrugged, leaned back against the wall and looked her in