Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“I meant it as a compliment.”
I make a noise. Such high praise.
“You’ll need to be scary because I told him you were good for it.”
“Oh, I’m up for it. I mean, good for it.”
“Great!” He claps one hand on my shoulder as though the solid action might fortify me. Meanwhile, I get a little lost staring into his lovely eyes. “Ned?”
No, I do not like being referred to as one-half of a pantomime donkey.
“Ned, are you listening?”
“Sorry.” I give myself an internal shake. “Who do I need to frighten again?”
“Deveraux.” His expression falters. “Raif Deveraux?”
The corners of my mouth twitch. “Sounds like something out of the movie. The name’s Deveraux. Raif Deveraux,” I intone deeply, borrowing from the 007 movies. “That’s not a real name.”
“That really is his name.”
“Yeah, and mine’s Felicity Tugwell,” I splutter, coming up with my Bond girl alter ego on the fly. “God, I crack myself up sometimes.”
“You mean you’ve never heard of him?”
“Should I have?” I eye Tod critically. “Have you been helping yourself to the party pills?”
“Ned, everyone knows about Deveraux. He owns most of the clubs in London, plus a bunch of hotels. And remember when I went to Ibiza last year and told you about that club with the two-thousand-euro table service? Well, that club is his. He owns half of the island, people say. And a chunk of Marbella!”
I shrug. How would I know any of that, let alone be interested? My party days are behind me.
“I thought everyone knew about him.”
“Obviously not.”
“The man is as rich as Midas and has more intrigue than… Machiavelli!”
“Then he has a very unfortunate name. It doesn’t sound the least bit threatening.”
“Not threaten—were you even listening to me?”
“Of course I was. I’m just saying his name is more suited to a hero in a historical romance. He doesn’t sound like someone you should be terrified of.”
“Well, I am.” With a groan, Tod swings away and rakes his hands through his hair, dramatic soul that he is. I take myself back to the champagne and tip a little more from the bottle into my glass.
“Come on, Tod. You know what I mean. Some luscious-locked dark-haired Fabio type, all rippling muscles and loincloth.” I take a quick sip, warming to my theme. “Or even better, buckskins and shiny leather hessian boots.”
This is the perfect intro for Tod to tease me about my reading choices. But he doesn’t. Instead, when I turn around, he seems to be genuinely distressed.
“He’s going to kill me. He’ll probably use my head to serve overpriced cocktails in.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ned, I owe him big.”
“Big what?”
His shoulders slump. “Money. I owe him money. While you were networking, I got into a game of poker.”
“But you don’t gamble.”
“I know!”
“More to the point, you don’t have any money to gamble.”
He pulls a face as though I’ve rubbed a sore point. Poker? I thought he’d left me to schmooze while he’d snuck off to fumble in a dark corner with some silly girl.
“Start from the beginning.” My tone sounds weary as I perch my bum on the edge of a leather Chesterfield sofa.
“When I left you talking to that finance bro, I wandered into a back room where a game was going on. Deveraux was there, and I found myself staring at him because, well, because I’ve never seen him in real life. And never without a gorgeous girl hanging off his arm.”
I fake gag. “Another Eurotrash playboy. Just what the world needs.”
“I don’t know where he’s from. The US, I think. He’s got a weird accent. Anyway, he asked if I wanted to buy in, and because I didn’t want to look like a total weirdo, standing there staring at him, I said I did.”
“You’ve only been gone an hour. How bad can it be?”
“Very bad.” His lids flutter, and he swallows audibly. “I bet everything.”
I resist the urge to shrug. Everything when you have nothing probably seems like a lot. Tod currently lives with me—he’s a roommate who doesn’t pay rent, rather than the one you split your utilities with. He uses my hot water, eats my fridge contents, and drinks my wine, and has done little else since he wandered into Whit & With, my art gallery, and charmed me into showing some of his work. I’m always loaning him money, which he says he’ll pay back with his next commission, though he never does.
He thinks he’s doing me a huge favor by doing a few shifts as a gallery assistant each week rather than the other way around because I do actually pay him.
I ignore the unhappy poking sensation at my temple. If the gallery doesn’t break even soon, I think my brother Leif might cut his losses. Leif, or Whit, as he prefers, is my not-so-silent partner. Without him, I wouldn’t have a business. But he’s a banker, not a charity.