Page 10 of Love and Loathing

“Aubrey… I want to help you. It can be my way of apologising for being so awful the other night. I’ll dress up, try to make myself presentable. We could flirt, make her jealous—”

He held up a hand, trying to stem the horror. “Stop. For the love of God.”

“I’d be more use than Roscoe.” She smiled, apparently seductively. Aubrey wanted to die. “Think about it.”

“Absolutely not. No. Not a chance in hell.”

Aubrey’s adamant and whole-hearted refusal of Evie’s offer was one of many reasons he found himself frozen and speechless outside the entrance to the event’s hotel approximately thirty hours later as the woman herself glided up to him in floor-length blue satin, scarlet lips spread in a wide smile.

The other, and even more dismaying reason, was the news he’d just heard as he waited on the carpeted pavement outside wishing he still smoked. Liv was here with Domnall. As in:withDomnall. As in: his prized client was now fucking the love of his life.

It was all a bit much, to be honest. Was this a detail his brothers had kept from him over roast lamb last Sunday when they carefully, delicately, informed him Liv was back? Aubrey stood dazed, that bell clanging in his brain once more as Evie slid a slender hand around his elbow and breathed in his ear, allperfume and soft hair brushing his jaw, “I couldn’t let you face this alone.”

He needed a drink. And a shallow grave. For himself, for Evie, or for Domnall, he wasn’t sure. He’d quite happily murder the lot of them.

Evie tugged on his arm, and he walked woodenly to the hotel door, handed his invitation to be checked, confirmed that, yes, Evie was his plus one, and then they were inside the gorgeous entrance.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” Evie said. “I thought I scrubbed up quite well.”

He glanced down, saw her hand sweep preeningly down the tiny satin-clad stomach, the slim satin-clad thigh, as though brushing off imaginary dust. He saw it but didn’t really notice it. Everything seemed very far away. The only thing that mattered was spotting Liv before she saw him. Making sure his face was composed, that he betrayed nothing…butfuck… He was far from composed.

If he’d known… If he’d had time to prepare himself… Domnall and Liv. Liv and Domnall. They’d met in New York, he supposed. Domnall had been out there a month or two ago, expanding his empire Stateside, consulting with his US legal team. That must be why she was back in London. She’d followed him here. Liv and Domnall. He was going to be sick.

“Fuck,” he muttered, catching a glimpse of bright auburn hair through the crowd and nearly jumping out of his skin. It wasn’t her. Too tall. Not her.

“Are you OK?” Evie asked.

He ignored her, barely hearing. “Let’s get to the bar.”

That would be better. He could watch the room from there, with the bar at his back. A drink in his hand—a drink inside him to settle the nerves, give him courage for the inevitable meeting. Because itwasinevitable now. His mission was to woo Domnall.His job depended on it. There’d be no avoiding Liv if she was here with him.

He pressed into the glitzy, stupid crowd, forging a path. Evie’s hand dropped from his elbow to clasp his hand instead, and she followed close in his wake—as though he was a raft in this churning sea of morons and not about to go under. But she was clearly a person who always made ridiculous choices.

The mahogany bar gleamed, the brass rail shone, light glittered over the massed ranks of spirits. He ordered his drink, wishing the bartender would hurry the hell up, and turned to watch the crowd, hip pressed against the bar as though he was balancing on a rocking boat.

“Martini,” Evie said to the bartender. “Extremely dirty.”

He glanced at her, and she grinned, red lips curving. It was the nineteen-twenties flapper tonight, from the heavily outlined eyes, so deeply blue, to the perfect painted mouth.

“I can’t believe you ordered an Old Fashioned,” she said.

“Why?”

“It’s just so on-brand. With the three-piece.” She waved a hand to his suit. “And the personality.”

“Then I dread to think what ordering your Martini ‘extremely dirty’ says about you.”

Her smile curved still deeper, in a quite preposterously filthy way. “Something good, I hope.”

“Oh?” asked Aubrey, feigning innocence. The bartender finally presented his drink, and he wrapped his hand gratefully around the thick glass. “I was thinking more about the other kind of dirt. Not too fond of the soap, are you, you hippy types?”

Evie flushed, smile replaced by a scowl.

He sipped his drink. “If you’re trying to seduce me, I should warn you you’re wasting your time. You’re far too young, you’re my friend’s little sister, and you’re not remotely my type.”

“I’m not trying to seduce you!”

“Then why the hell are you here, Evie?”

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