Sweet Deception (24 page)

“Come on, Charlotte.” He lowered his voice. “I know you're upset, and I just think it would help if you gave me a chance to explain myself—”

I forced a laugh. “Don't flatter yourself. I couldn't care less about that night. I just had an itch that needed scratching, and you were the closest man around.”

Richard's jaw tightened, and the vein in his neck began to throb. It was worth remembering that this was all it took to annoy him.

“All right, if that's how you want it,” he said finally. I made to walk away again, but then I heard him say, “Are you still coming to the party on Friday night?”

It took me a second to remember—it was the firm's Christmas party. I'd been looking forward to it before, but now that I'd thrown myself at him, I couldn't think of anywhere I'd less like to be going. Unfortunately if I tried to back out, he'd assume that it was because of him, and I didn't want him to think that—even if it was true.

I looked back, forcing a bright smile. “Of course I'll be there. You know me—can't keep away from a good party.”

With that, I finally managed to escape. But as I made my way back to my desk, I couldn't help wondering how I was ever going to get through the evening.

*  *  *

That Friday night, I sat in the back of a black cab, nervously picking at the beading on my dress. I was on my way to Vinopolis, the elegant events venue in Southbank where Davenport's held its Christmas party. Luckily my flat was close enough to the office to allow me to go home to change for the party, and I'd decided to make use of the advantage. A lot of the other staff members weren't so lucky, and had to
get ready in the company loos, which meant that by five that evening the ladies' room reeked of hairspray and was full of women jostling for a place in front of the mirror.

I'd picked out my gown two Saturdays ago, when I'd had my hair done. It was a strapless red velvet dress, with a full ballerina skirt, and I'd managed to find heels in the same shade. The dress had a proper bodice, which cinched in my waist and pushed up my bosom, in a flattering but not indecent way. Even though I was dressing more conservatively for work, I still hadn't completely abandoned my unique style—I was just trying to save it for more appropriate occasions. Tonight's dress was the kind of outfit you wore to be noticed.

Even after what had happened with Richard, I'd gone through with my plans to look as spectacular as possible this evening. If nothing else, I was determined to show him what he was missing. I'd planned out every detail. Along with wearing the stunning red dress, I'd borrowed Lindsay's curling wand, and after burning myself a few times, I'd eventually managed to style my hair in loose curls. I'd applied my make-up carefully—losing the heavy eyeliner in favour of just a lick of mascara along with a rose lip gloss—and finished off with a dusting of silver glitter across my shoulders and on my cheeks. Richard might not want me, but I was going to make sure I still had a good time.

It wasn't like me to splash out on a taxi, but with these
heels there was no way I was going to be able to walk, so I'd gone ahead and ordered a minicab. Twenty minutes later, the driver pulled along a cobbled street, which led to the private entrance to Vinopolis's Great Hall, where the party was being held. The venue was close to Borough Market, and the whole area had a Dickensian feel. I paid the driver and stepped out into a swirl of women in evening gowns and men in black tie. It was Friday night, two weeks before Christmas, and it seemed everyone in London was out celebrating.

Bouncers stood outside an arched doorway, checking names off a list to keep out gatecrashers. Inside, signs directed me up a huge stone staircase. I dumped my coat in the cloakroom, and then followed the stream of people and thump of the music to the Great Hall.

When I got there, the party was already in full swing. I stood at the entrance for a moment, drinking in the scene. The Great Hall continued the Victorian London theme—it was a vast room, with magnificent high vaulted ceilings, oak-wood flooring and exposed brickwork. Practically the whole of the London office must have been crammed in—all four hundred of us. But the historic setting contrasted with the modern nightclub feel. Waiters circulated with trays of champagne and canapés, and the lights were low, the music blaring out. A DJ was up on the stage at one end of the room. There were chairs and tables around the outside,
surrounding a huge dance floor. The throb of the bass shook the floor. The strobe lights flashed pink and blue, merging into purple.

My eyes searched the sea of people, trying to pick out a familiar face. I couldn't see anyone I knew, so I decided to make my way through the crowd until I stumbled across someone to talk to.

I began to fight my way through, with no luck, until I heard, “Hello, luvie.” Rex's camp voice rose above the music. I turned to see him elbowing his way towards me. He'd gone all out for the occasion, looking even more flamboyant than usual in an electric-blue velvet suit. The pink cocktail in his hand finished off the look. He kissed me on each cheek, and then held me away from him, his eyes sweeping over me, to take in my outfit. “Now don't you look a treat?” He nodded approvingly. “So who are you trying to impress tonight? Come on, don't be shy, you can tell Uncle Rexie.”

I was pleased that with this lighting he couldn't see my cheeks flush red. “I told you before, I'm not interested in anyone.”

He folded his arms, and pouted. “Oh, don't play dumb with me. No one comes dressed like that if she's not hoping to catch someone's eye.”

“Oh, leave the poor girl alone.” Helena appeared. I wouldn't have recognised her if it hadn't been for her trademark steely voice. She'd lost the businesslike glasses, and her
hair had been released from its severe bun for the first time since I'd met her, floating like silk around her shoulders. She had on a black fitted dress, which showed off her slim figure perfectly. “After all, from what I understand she's not the only one with her eye on someone this evening.” She gave a pointed glance towards Tristan Thorne, an accounts executive whom Rex had been nursing a crush on for ages.

“And I have no problem admitting it,” he said. “In fact, on that note—” He raised his cocktail glass, swallowed down the last of his drink and headed off through the throng, cutting his way towards the unsuspecting Tristan.

Right then, the DJ began to blend into another song, something more familiar. It took me a moment to recognise the opening refrain of Beyoncé's “Crazy in Love.”

“Oh, I love this!” Helena cried. She cocked an eyebrow. “Fancy hitting the dance floor?”

To my surprise, she looked deadly serious. It seemed the Christmas party was bringing out a new side in her tonight. The more pop-y beat had everyone flooding onto the dance floor, but it was too early in the evening for me—I needed some food first. I was about to refuse, but the words stuck in my throat as another familiar face caught my eye—it was Richard, standing a few metres away. He looked tall and dignified in black tie, and I felt the slow flip of my stomach that seemed to be happening whenever he was around lately.

He hadn't spotted me yet, which gave me a chance to
stare. He was deep in conversation with Davenport's managing director, Chris Lamb, and a petite redhead, whom I assumed was his wife. There was another woman in the group, tall and elegant in a bias-cut white satin evening gown, with silky dark hair falling like a ribbon down her bare back. She was facing away from me at first, and so I simply assumed she was someone from the firm I didn't recognise. But then Richard must have said something funny, because she turned to laugh, laying a manicured hand on his arm—and that's when I saw her high cheekbones, English rose complexion and green cat's eyes, and realised who she was: Petra Hawthorne.

I instinctively took a step backwards, the shock of her being here was like a physical blow. I thought back to what Richard had told me when we went down to my parents'—he'd said that they were over. Had he lied? Or had my clumsy attempt at making a pass at him driven him back into her arms?

“Are you all right?” Helena touched me lightly on the shoulder. I tore my eyes away and focused instead on my boss. Her look of concern told me just how much seeing Petra with Richard had shaken me.

Somehow I managed a smile. “I'm fine.”

“You sure?” Her eyes flicked over in Richard's direction, and I wondered how much she'd figured out. She was, after all, pretty shrewd. And she was also, unlike Rex, entirely
discreet. If she did suspect anything, she'd never mention it unless I brought it up.

I threaded my arm through hers and forced a bright smile. “Just desperate to get out there and dance!”

I pulled her over to the dance floor, and concentrated on looking like I was having the time of my life.

*  *  *

We spent the next couple of hours dancing. Helena was a surprisingly good dancer—was there anything she couldn't do?—and moved with a natural rhythm that had everyone looking on. Luckily, we joined up with another group from the Creative Department, so I was able to bop around with them. It was a typical Christmas party—everyone taking the opportunity to let their hair down after a hard year.

Around ten, the DJ took a break, and the master of ceremonies came onstage to get the room's attention. “I understand that your CEO, Richard Davenport, wants to say a few words.”

The waiters were coming round with more champagne, in preparation for what I assumed would be a toast.

Richard took to the stage, and I felt my heart do a little flip. He looked like he'd been born to wear a tux, reminding me of a young James Bond. As he began to speak, the crowd surged towards the stage, but I moved to the side, taking refuge in one of the brick archways. I wanted to be out of
sight, so I didn't give my feelings away. I took a sip of champagne, trying to calm myself, but my gaze was drawn back to Richard. I knew I was staring, but fortunately everyone else was looking at him, too, so it wouldn't be noticeable. I decided to make the most of the opportunity.

“You're in love with him, aren't you?”

The voice made me jump. I turned to find Petra standing behind me. Close up, I could see just how stunning she looked in a floor-length white satin sheath dress—a simple, classic look. Next to her, in my clinging red velvet, I felt tacky and obvious.

But her eyes weren't on me—she was looking across the room at Richard.

“I'm referring to Richard, by the way,” she said, finally shifting her attention to me. “You're in love with him, aren't you?”

My arms folded protectively over my chest, an instinctive move. “I don't know what you mean—” I started, but she waved a hand, cutting me off.

“Oh, don't bother lying to me.” Her eyes were narrow like a cat's, and suddenly the nice girl act was dropped. “I never liked the two of you spending time together, but at least at first neither of you wanted to see the other in a romantic way. Then that last time we ran into you, it was written all over your face.”

I thought back to the time she was referring to—that
night we'd run into her in Davenport's reception area. It was about the time I'd realised I had a crush on Richard. But that's all it was, surely? How could she think I was in love with him?

“You're wrong—”

Petra gave a light chuckle. “Am I? Well, I can understand why you couldn't admit it to yourself. You honestly think he's going to want anything to do with a whore like you?” She shook her head, as though she'd never heard anything so ridiculous. “I mean, exactly how many guys have you slept with? Do you even know? And you think a sought-after man like Richard, who could have his pick of women, is going to so much as look at you?”

“Maybe not,” I fired back, refusing to let her see that she'd hurt me. “But from what I heard, he isn't particularly interested in an uptight bitch like you, either. Didn't he dump your over-primped arse?”

But instead of looking fazed by my attack, Petra simply shrugged. “That's right. We did break up. But we're here together now.” A little smile played around her mouth. “And even if it doesn't ultimately work out between us, let's face it—when he does settle down, I can guarantee that it'll be with someone who's more like me than you.”

I wanted to cut her down with a sharp retort—I really did. But there was nothing I could say to that, because honestly, deep down I knew she was right.

Petra could obviously see that she'd got the reaction she'd wanted, so she raised her glass to me. “Enjoy your evening, Charlotte.”

Then she picked up the skirt of her gown, and swept off, leaving me standing alone.

I looked back over at Richard, who was concluding his speech, to a round of applause. What had I been thinking? That I could change my hair and put on a pretty dress and somehow make him want me? Whatever I did, he'd never see me as anything other than the immature party girl, who slept her way through London.

I tore my eyes away from him, and swept the room. My gaze finally settled on Miles Fairfax, the obnoxious accounts manager who had briefed us on PURE before I screwed up. He was sitting up at the bar, not even bothering to pretend he was listening to Richard's speech.

I walked over and slid onto the stool next to him. He swivelled round to face me. If he was surprised to see me there, he didn't show it. His eyes swept over me, spending far too long on my cleavage, and I could see a spark of interest. Miles had never once acknowledged me in the office—I was of no use to him there—but it was clearly going to be a different matter tonight.

“Hey . . . you.” I could see him searching for my name, and failing to recall it. I didn't give a damn. All that I cared about right now were the endless stories I'd heard of him
bedding half the ladies at Davenport's. He fixed me with what he no doubt considered to be his most winning smile. “You're looking stunning tonight, if you don't mind me saying.”