The Party Starts at Midnight. Lucy King
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allegedly holed up within and remind him about the party in full swing downstairs—the party he was supposed to be attending but wasn’t—Abby might have been blown away by the sheer scale and luxury of the place.
She might have ditched her precious clipboard and marvelled at the spectacular view of London at night, all lit up like the enormous Christmas tree that sat in the lobby downstairs, and showcased by the acres of window. She might have oohed and aahed over the gorgeous chrome-and-crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling and cast subtle light over the antiques, and then thrown herself onto one of the three plush, charcoal velvet-covered sofas with a sigh of pleasure.
She might have lingeringly run her fingers along the gleaming granite work surfaces in the kitchen, had a quick go on one of the many machines in the state-of-the-art gym or wondered about the nearly empty bottle of whisky that sat on the desk in the study and the glass that lay on its side on a messy pile of faintly stained papers beside it.
As it was, she didn’t have either the time or the inclination to gawp, cop a feel or wonder about the possible evidence of a drinking session because the sumptuousness of his home wasn’t important right now. What was important was that Leo Cartwright was meant to be downstairs and she was here to fetch him.
If only she could find him.
Still in the study Abby put down her clipboard, and, out of habit, picked up the glass and put it on a coaster she saw peeping out from beneath a book. Then shuffled the papers into a neat pile.
She had to admit that despite Jake’s assurance that his brother was definitely up here, the silence and general air of absence didn’t bode particularly well.
And OK, so there was still the bedroom/bathroom half of the flat that she hadn’t searched, but there was no way she was heading in that direction. It was bad enough that she was in Leo’s flat uninvited in the first place, and, even though Jake had said he’d take full responsibility for any outcome, she absolutely drew the line at scouring the bedrooms without some kind of authorisation at least.
Perching on the edge of the desk, she took her phone out of the discreet little pouch sewn into the inside of her belt and scrolled down until she came to Jake’s number. She hit the dial button, waited for a second and then, when he picked up, said, ‘Jake, I’m afraid there’s no sign of him.’
‘What, nowhere?’ came the deep voice at the other end of the line.
‘Not that I can see. Are you sure he’s up here?’
‘About ninety-nine per cent. He was when I last spoke to him. Where have you looked?’
‘Everywhere,’ she said, then added, ‘Well, everywhere apart from the bedrooms.’
There was a pause while he wished someone a happy Christmas and told them to grab a glass of champagne, and then he was back. ‘Why haven’t you checked the bedrooms?’
‘It seemed like an invasion of privacy,’ she said, thinking that actually, talking of privacy, if Leo was in there, he could well be doing something that meant he either hadn’t been able to hear her calling or didn’t want to. Possibly something wholly absorbing and very private indeed.
‘You needn’t worry about interrupting anything,’ said Jake, now sounding a bit impatient and, apparently, able to read her mind. ‘It’s seven in the evening and besides, Leo hasn’t had a woman in his bed for years.’
Which was way more than she needed to know about anyone, let alone a client. ‘Nevertheless, I—’
‘Look, Abby,’ said Jake, cutting across her protest in an I’m-the-client-here tone that told her he’d had enough and would brook no further argument. ‘I have to make this speech, and people are wondering where he is—as am I—so will you please just go and see if you can find him?’
Realising this wasn’t a battle she was going to win and consoling herself with the thought that so far they’d actually been remarkably—and surprisingly, given their exacting standards—easy clients, Abby gave in. After all, it was hardly the worst thing she’d been asked to do in her ten years of event planning, was it? The Cartwright brothers were paying her a lot of money to ensure that this evening went smoothly and if that meant that Leo Cartwright had to be located, then locate him she would. Wherever he was and whatever he was doing.
And so what if he had the faintly intimidating reputation of being formidable, ruthless and utterly devoid of emotion? He couldn’t be any trickier to handle than the last client she’d had, could he? She’d take cold, formidable and ruthless over a bad-tempered paranoid who’d accused her at virtually every meeting of, at best, wasting his money, at worst, siphoning some of it off.
‘Sure,’ she said briskly, mentally pulling on her big-girl pants and injecting steel into her spine. ‘No problem.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jake, and cut the call.
Swiping at her phone to lock the screen, Abby put it away and pushed herself off the desk. Then she smoothed her dress and adjusted her belt so that the bright silver bow once again sat exactly above her left hip bone.
Really, there was no need to feel awkward or uncomfortable or nervous about searching the rest of the flat, was there? She was just doing her job. She’d call ahead—loudly—and if Leo was in there he’d be alerted to her presence. He’d call back, she’d retreat and wait, and everything would be absolutely fine. There’d be no unwelcome surprises. No embarrassing moments. No inappropriate or foolish behaviour.
Satisfied with the plan, she checked her chignon for hair that might have escaped the pins, and then, pleased to find nothing amiss, picked up her clipboard and set off to investigate.
And while stomping to announce her arrival was never going to work given the deadening effect of the thick deep-pile carpet, perhaps a loud cheery hello would.
‘Hello, hello,’ she called brightly, and stuck her head round the door to a huge, immaculate but empty bedroom before moving to the next. ‘Anyone home?’ she trilled, but her quarry wasn’t there either.
Nor—perhaps thankfully—did she find him in the gorgeous bathroom that was practically the size of the ground floor of her house or, unsurprisingly enough, in the laundry cupboard.
Which left only one room to try.
Standing at the entrance to what she presumed was the master bedroom suite and her last hope, she listened for a moment for sounds that suggested he might be engaged in an activity she’d rather not disturb.
Blessedly hearing none, she rapped on the door that was ajar, and then, after taking a deep breath, went in.
And there he was.
Alone, thank goodness. But lying flat out on his back, sprawled diagonally across the bed, naked apart from a perilously small section of white bunched-up sheet that loosely covered him from waist to mid-thigh, and illuminated by a pool of soft light cast by the bedside lamp.
For one frozen heart-stopping moment Abby couldn’t work out what to do next. Which was odd because she always had a plan. Always. More than one, in fact; when it came to the events she organised she had plans to cover every imaginable eventuality. Her job, her success, depended on it, and so she never didn’t know what to do.
But now, as she looked at him, strangely unable to drag her gaze away, her mouth going dry and her heart thumping unnaturally fast, she couldn’t even think, let alone act because for some unfathomable reason her brain appeared to be having a bit of a wiring problem. Alarmingly, rational thought was heading for the hills. Her common sense was evaporating. And her unfailing capability to do her job was, well, for the first time in years, apparently failing.
The fast-disappearing professional side of her was dimly aware she should go and shake him awake and point out that he was late for his own party. But the sometime insomniac in her wanted to leave him to sleep, and the woman in her—who hadn’t been up close and personal to a man in six months and was now very much making herself known—was quite happy to just stand