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Easing slowly away, he kept the engine revs low until they reached the main road out of Foxbrooke.
Neither of them said a word to each other as he drove. Estelle was spun out from the day, and trying not to be excited about her first ride in a Ferrari and being this close to James.
When he drove into the livery, he turned right, stopping outside a small cottage.
‘I presume this is where you live?’
She nodded.
He cleared his throat. ‘Will I see you tomorrow? At the office?’
‘I need to collect the Defender from the garage so it might be a little after nine.’
‘Okay.’ He got out of the car.
Before Estelle realised what he was doing, he was at her side, opening the door, his arm extended.
Despite every promise she would never willingly touch him, she took his hand and got out.
James stepped back, giving her space.
She held out a folded piece of paper.
‘What’s that?’
‘A fact few people know about me.’ Pressing it into his hand, she strode briskly to her house and entered, closing the front door behind her. She only moved when she heard the sound of his car driving away.
Five minutes later, her phone pinged with a message.
James Hunter-Savage: Thank you for giving me your number
16
Waking early the next morning, James lay on his back in the darkness. He’d spent a lifetime believing if his public and private lives met, his own personal universe would implode. Yet he was still alive, and no matter what the Foxbrooke family might have been thinking about him or his parents, they’d been unfailingly friendly.
Even after everything they’d heard about him over the years.
James’s stomach tightened. He’d always been able to rationalise, excuse, or forget whenever his behaviour hadn’t met someone else’s standards. But the decision last year to steal Henry’s client and deal at Conqueror had been misjudged.
Turning on the light, he got out of bed and prepared for the gym. He needed to give his mind something else to focus on besides whispering the negative mantra of ‘you were wrong’, over and over. Pulling on his trainers, he went to the door. Could he tell Estelle why he did it?
Shouldn’t you be having that conversation with Henry? a tiny voice inside him piped up.
Fuck off, the rest of him automatically replied.
Making his way quietly through the silent house, James’s head was filled with Estelle. It mattered what she thought of him. He wanted her to like him. Last night, she’d finally let the door to her soul open a crack and given him a glimpse of what lay inside. James already wanted to move in.
He huffed out a derisive laugh at his thoughts and entered the gym. As if Estelle would ever want that. Last night she’d been as wrung out as he’d been by their families meeting. That was the only reason she’d let her guard down.
But she gave you her number, his inner cheerleader reminded him.
As colleagues, his self-doubt replied.
Sitting on the rowing machine, he began his warm-up. The repetitive movement and rhythmic sound were relaxing, and allowed his mind to continue processing the previous day and evening.
Arthur Foxbrooke. If James had thought his parents were embarrassing, they were nothing compared to the Duke of Somerset. It was one thing reading about him online, or glimpsing him across a crowded room at the Winter Ball, but quite another to sit down for dinner with him.
James had always been envious of Henry growing up with such effortlessly upper-class parents, but last night his muscles involuntarily tensed each time Arthur opened his mouth. No wonder the local councillors didn’t like him. Trying to bribe them and offering them sex? Jesus Christ. His dad had thought it hilarious and his mum had laughed along, but James didn’t know if she’d meant it.
