Page 44 of Pride and Privilege

She looked at him like he’d just asked if she had a private jet. “No, I don’t have a car. I’ll get the train. It’ll only take a few trips and I still have my train pass until the end of the month.”

“No need for that. I’ll drive you.”

An hour later, they were on their way—admittedly not very quickly, it being London traffic and all.

“This is not the kind of car I thought you’d have,” said Poppy. “It looks like something American Presidents get bundled into during terrorist scares.”

Roscoe laughed. Itwasrather enormous. And entirely black. “It’s just a hire car. They dropped it off while you were changing. My car isn’t really very practical for a job like this.”

“Oh God, let me guess. It’s a tiny little red Ferrari. Convertible.”

“Please. I havesometaste.”

“What then?”

“Aston Martin. DBS. Coupe.” It was the car James Bond drove. A modern version of it. But he didn’t want to admit that to Poppy. She would, quite justifiably, roast him for it. And his brother had already done the job.

“What’s coupe mean?” Poppy asked.

“Not a convertible. Soft-tops are rubbish. All the bugs, the wind. No thanks.”

“And does it mess up your hair?” she teased.

“Exactly.”

His eyes were on the road, but he felt her studying him.

“I liked it longer.”

He risked flashing her a look. Was rewarded by the flush of pink on her cheeks. “Iknow,” he said with a grin, voice deliberately low.

“That’s unfair—mocking me with my drunken antics.”

“Not mocking. Just…reliving. Enjoyably so.”

He glanced over again, but she was staring straight ahead, cheeks now crimson. Damn. It was just so easy for their banter to slip into something more flirtatious. He really needed to put a stop to that. He was about to rescue her from one sleazy landlord. He couldn’t end up becoming another.

The reality of that hit home when they got to her old flat. She refused his help packing—probably for privacy’s sake—just whatdidshe have hidden in that chest of drawers?—so he was stuck making small talk with Lecherous Dave in the living room until there were some boxes he could help carry.

“Thought you weren’t sleeping with her?” accused Dave as an opening topic.

Roscoe grimaced. He was leaning in the living room doorway and glanced over his shoulder into the short corridor behind him which led past the bathroom to the bedrooms. Poppy’s was at the end and the door was half-closed, but she’d probably still be able to hear every word.

“I’m not.”

“Right. And she’s moving in with you? Pretty fast work.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Haven’t you seen that Harry Met Sally movie?”

“I think that’s supposed to be more of a comedy than a fundamental mathematical proof. Believe it or not, Dave, I’m perfectly capable of being friends with a woman and not wanting to sleep with her.”

From behind him came the sound of a drawer being slammed shut. But he hoped Poppywaslistening. She needed to feel sure his intentions were exactly as honourable as he’d told her they were. Maybe if he kept saying it often enough, he’d start to believe it, too.

Dave just scoffed. But so long as Poppy believed him, that was the main thing. Especially when he had helped her carry the last of her bags and boxes down to the car and he saw the paucity of her belongings. Everything she owned fit in the back of one moderately over-sized SUV. With plenty of room to spare. She was putting so much faith in him. Her life was basically in his hands—not just her job and the place she lived, but also her future. Because if she was funding her studies with the money saved from not having to commute, it made her even more dependent on being able to stay at his flat.

She had no savings to fall back on, no family home with a dozen spare bedrooms to move into. If things didn’t work out at his place, where would she go? Would she be able to find anywhere else she could afford? Would she end up somewhere even worse than Lecherous Dave’s?

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