The Scandal Behind the Wedding. Bella Frances

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      She cut a path through the lobby of the seven-star Al-Jafar, the swish and sway of guests blending into a blur of colour and monochrome. Between the dots of majestic palms and bejewelled pillars the spectacular central fountain bubbled liquid wealth, and in between the couture, the businesswear and the downright casual, black abayas and white kanduras reminded her that, ruby slingbacks aside, she wasn’t in east London any more. Or even anywhere near it.

      She passed by the wide, welcoming lounge and straight to the elevators. Times she had sipped iced water with Nick on those sofas flashed through her mind—gorgeous days. When there had still been a chance that old Alaïa might one day make friends with new Alaïa. When the half-carat diamond on her finger had flashed happily, sure that a band of gold would one day join it. Not like now, when her ring was the definition of solitaire. Tucked away with her pride in its little velvet box. Now the best downtime could offer was a beach club Happy Hour in between the two jobs that kept money flowing back home.

      And this. This ‘party’. This will-I-won’t-I?, what-have-I-got-to-lose? singles party that her roommate Kirsty had told her about. While the rest of her buddies were all packing their overnight bags to head out of town for a girlie weekend what else was she going to do? Trail social media sites and post fake comments about the awesome time she was having?

      No. It was well past time she got a grip on the gloom and took some control back. A singles party was just what she needed. So what if she was dreading it? Could it be that bad?

      She poked a seen-much-better-days manicured fingernail to call the elevator. Another luxury that would have to go. Brass doors opened. Smoky mirrors reflected the net result of putting make-up on in a car, on a half-built road, in the middle of a sandstorm, with five minutes to spare. She was Cleopatra-dramatic with the eyes, and the wonky lip-liner round her mouth made it look much more trout than pout.

      Her confidence was already borderline neurotic even without a make-up malfunction—enough to tip her over the edge and into the car back home and a hot date with the television. Yes, that sounded perfect.

      She paused, swivelled round to leave. A figure appeared behind her, blocking the light and her path back out. Tall, dark and sharp in executive clothes. Super-hot. And even through the haze of her mascara-caked eyelashes he looked kettlebell-fit. She caught his eye before she got a chance to spin round and hide her face between the twin curtains of dark red hair that for once in her life was all soft waves instead of ponytail-sensible. If Babs could see her now she’d never believe it—her tomboy baby sister looking like a drag queen with stage fright.

      Georgia stood in the corner, eyes swept down, staring at his shoes. They had to be handmade. And Italian. They stepped inside and turned, with their owner, to face first her and then the control panel in the corner. Noise came next. Voices … male. Laughing and easy and fun. They piled right in through her line of vision. She swept her eyes up past them. The ceiling was so much more interesting.

      Young rich men were ten a penny in this town—and this lot brought a noise and a scent that bellowed the fact that they’d been on a liquid-only brunch.

      A slight hush as they piled inside and then the doors closed, pushing them closer. They’d noticed her. Over here everybody noticed her—even in her default bare-faced-and-boring look. Paper-pale skin and long auburn hair were not the easiest things to keep under wraps—but add to that an explosion in a make-up factory and a no-imagination-needed dress and she guaranteed herself an audience of gaping man cubs.

      ‘Excuse me, miss?’

      Dark, deep and disquieting, Italian-Shoes-Man’s tones cut through the crush and jolted her eyes back down.

      ‘Which floor?’

      She flashed a glance at the array of illuminated golden circles. At a Dubai-bronzed masculine hand hovering, waiting for her reply.

      ‘Which floor?’ he repeated patiently.

      His accent was hard to place—a native English-speaker, though the soft burr made her think of rugged coastlines and rolling fields. Cosy pubs and pints of stout. Comfort. But the man himself, when she trailed her eyes from outstretched hand to broad shoulder and proud jaw, was clean-line city.

      In the crush of boozy testosterone he stood apart. Taller, fiercer. Power oozed like strong cologne and she scented it, unwillingly. Powerful men were hard work. They made demands and expected returns. Their egos took more maintenance than her manicure. She dealt with them enough at work to know they were exactly the kind of men to stay well away from.

      And he had those thick, sharp, gull wing brows going on.

      She rolled her eyes. There was something deeply unattractive about a man with better eyebrows than you. Nick was like that. But Nick was a jerk—who admittedly waxed, plucked and tinted his eyebrows. Beyond vain. In love with himself and the idea of love. Shallow as that fountain and false as the Dubai Mall ski-slopes. Wow, she’d been such a fool.

      ‘Miss?’ The still patient tones jolted her back.

      ‘Fifty-ninth, thank you,’ she said, seeing the circle already illuminated.

      Yes, she’d been even more gullible than usual when she’d met Nick. But this guy, even though he was smooth and sleek, actually looked hard and more than a little bit tough—a force. Elemental and real. As if he had stubble because he hadn’t had a chance to shave—not because the men’s magazines were showcasing stubble this season. As if he’d picked up the bump on the side of his nose on a rugby field or in a barroom brawl. As if he’d know exactly how to use those lips.

      And the gull wings, now that she saw more closely, were really just thick, naturally well-shaped brows to set off his freakishly perfect blue eyes.

      The elevator zoomed, stilled, and then the doors eased open just a few floors higher. There was barely space inside for a blast of cheap perfume but a middle-aged couple thought they’d give it a go. The guys shifted and pressed closer to her. In her heels she was nose to nose with the smallest of them, and they were all pretty tall. She could sense them exchanging looks, then heard a stifled snigger. Whatever. They were totally not getting to her and her manufactured composure.

      She was late. She was heading into the unknown. But she was determined to stop being a victim. And she was going to project cool and calm—starting now.

      The elevator whooshed and paused again, to deposit the couple, but the guy closest didn’t give back her personal space. Instead he turned round and winked. Really. Winked. She drew her eyes from him and stared straight ahead.

      ‘Hey, gorgeous, how about it?’

      Georgia opened her mouth to flip out her standard, You couldn’t afford me. The line she served up with the pints and shots she passed across the bar of The Tavern—London pub and home to her and Babs since forever. But that would just get her into a conversation, and they were too young, too cocksure and too much the worse for their liquid brunch for her to go anywhere near them.

      No, much better if she focussed on chatting to men who were maybe a bit older tonight, a bit quieter, a bit more homely than off-the-charts handsome—maybe a man she could … trust?

      After all since Nick had gone, taking with him the stuffing he’d knocked out of her, the last thing she needed was to get all bent out of shape over another hot young dude. Or—worse still—someone like the power furnace in the corner. The one who was burning up the air in this elevator with no СКАЧАТЬ