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“Yes, if.” I inhaled, then breathed out. “I don’t know you anymore, Xavi, last night notwithstanding.”
“That’s absurd. You just said you loved me.”
“And you said it was nothing but a tawdry affair.” I shook my head. That one had really stung. “No, you’re going to have to wait. I need to see what’s best for Sofia. Get to know you better. See what your life is. Find out who you really are. Then, and only then, if I believe you won’t hurt her…then you can meet your daughter.”
He examined me for what seemed like hours. Now would have been a great time to make my exit, to sweep away on the last word like the heroines of my favorite books. It’s what Elizabeth Bennett would have done, for sure.
But the intensity of his gaze kept me rooted to the spot like I had been completely turned to stone. A statue to his Medusa’s glare.
Did that make him a snake?
After what seemed like an eternity, Xavier shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and took a few steps so we were less than six inches apart. Slowly, he bent down, and even in the winter wind, his salty-sweet scent of cologne, soap, and brine washed over me, causing a different kind of tension to ripple over my skin, a different kind of knot to twist in my stomach.
I closed my eyes. How could anyone bear this kind of torture? How could anyone fight it at all?
His breath was warm on my ear as he spoke.
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
The deliciously twisted knot turned to an anvil. When I finally opened my eyes, he was gone, swept away like a phantom, but leaving the ghost of his unspoken threats behind.
Xavier
It was close to eleven p.m. by the time I made it to Miss Flanders, a pub just a few streets from my office west of Camden. It was my last meeting of the day, and since it was with Jagger, I insisted on going over the weekend numbers from the opening of Chez Miso with a pint and the best beef Wellington in London. Normally, I preferred to eat cleaner food like I was brought up on, but tonight I just needed a drink and something heavy to calm the knots in my gut that hadn’t loosened since I’d left New York two days earlier.
“Fuck me, that’s it,” I greeted Jagger when I saw he’d already taken the liberty of ordering my drink.
“Cheers,” he replied, accepting a fist bump before we both settled down to our sides of the booth. “Thought you might need that.”
“You’ve no fucking clue.” I polished off about half of it before setting the glass back on the coaster. “Did you order for me too, like I asked?”
“The waitress said they were out of the Wellington, but special tonight is steak and kidney pie, so I got that. Work for you?”
I nodded. I would have eaten grass at this point in the day.
“So.” Jagger leaned back in his seat and stroked the goatee he’d grown after some girl had told him he looked like Tony Stark. He didn’t, and it was ridiculous, but he was still my mate and really good with numbers. At least one of us finished our degree. “You want the good or the bad?”
I finished my ale and waved my hand at the server for another. “The good. The bad is always the longer conversation.”
“Raves from the Guardian, the Mail, the Observer, and ten others. You’re booked out for six months. I think it’s fairly certain you’ve got another hit.”
I nodded. It was what I expected. “And the bad?”
He shrugged. “Just Louise Fernsby.”
I scowled. “That witch? Let me guess—another rant?”
Jagger nodded. “Fucking brutal, man. Wish you hadn’t dumped her after one night, eh?”
I scowled. “A one-night stand by definition is for one night. I thought she was just a girl looking for a good time, not the newest food critic for the Times. Or daughter of its bloody owner. She told me her name was Lulu, for fuck’s sake.”
Jagger just grinned good-naturedly. My mistakes with women—this one in particular—were legendary, but he only ever laughed with me, not at me. This was why I had hired him when I started the Parker Group. As much for his affability, which I lacked, as for his business sense.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I think she’d give you another shot,” he said. “Every time I run into her at a party or what, she’s always asking after you. Calls you ‘that horrible lord,’ like you were a character from Downton Abbey.”
“You’ve watched Downton Abbey?” I wondered, thinking of Francesca. She’d know exactly what he was talking about.
Jagger just snorted. “’Course I have. Women fucking love it. All I have to do to get laid is invite a girl over to Netflix and chill, put that show on, open a bottle of wine, and my night is made.”
