Amy Andrews - The Most Expensive Night of Her Life

‘Well?’ Ava’s huffy demand yanked him back to the conversation.

‘Dougy,’ Blake said, in no mood to humour her as her gown slipped off her right shoulder exposing more of her to his view. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her perfect little snub nose placed perfectly in the middle of her delicate kitten-like face.

‘His name’s Dougy.’

‘Well, do you think you could rein Dougy in? He’s acting like some horny teenager.’

Blake sighed. Why was it he liked project management again? He made a note to tell Charlie no more divas. Their business was going gangbusters—they could afford to be choosey.

‘Ava,’ he said patiently, ‘he’s nineteen. He is a horny teenager.’

‘Well, he can be that on his own time,’ she snapped. ‘When he’s on my time, I expect him to have his head down and do the job I’m paying him for. And so should you.’

Blake contemplated telling Ava Kelly to quit her bitching and let him worry about his employees. Dougy was a good apprentice—keen and a hard worker—and Blake wasn’t about to make an issue out of what was, to him, a non-issue. But he figured no one had ever used the B word around Ms Kelly—not to her face anyway—and he wasn’t going to be the first.

Hell, what she needed was a damn good spanking. But he wasn’t about to do that either.

The job was over at the end of the day, they were just putting the finishing touches to the reno, and he could suck up her diva-ness for a few more hours.

Blake unclenched his jaw. ‘I’ll talk to him,’ he said through stiff lips.

Ava looked down her nose at him again and sniffed. ‘See that you do.’

Then she spun on her heel and marched away. He watched as the edges of her gown flowed behind her like tails, her lovely ankles exposed with every footfall. Higher up his gaze snagged on the enticing sway of one teeny-tiny red triangle.

The end of the day couldn’t come soon enough.

* * *

A couple of hours later Blake answered the phone to his brother. Blake rarely answered the phone while at a job site but he always picked up for Charlie. His brother might have been younger but he’d been the driving force behind their design business and behind dragging Blake out of the maudlin pit of despair he’d almost totally disappeared into a few years back.

Blake owed Charlie big time.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Joanna rang. She’s really upset. One of their biggest supporters is pulling out due to financial issues and she’s freaking out they won’t be able to continue to run their programmes.’

Joanna was their sister. She’d been widowed three years ago when her husband, Colin, a lieutenant in the British army and a close friend of Blake’s, was killed in the same explosion that had injured him. They’d been in the same unit and he’d been Col’s captain. And he’d promised his sister he’d look out for her husband.

That he’d bring him home alive.

Not a promise he’d been able to keep as it turned out.

She and three other army wives had started a charity soon after, which supported the wives, girlfriends and families of British servicemen. They’d done very well in almost two years but fighting for any charity backing in the global financial situation was hard—losing the support of a major contributor was a real blow.

And losing Col had been blow enough.

Blake understood that it was through the charity that Joanna kept him alive. It kept her going. It was her crutch.

And Blake understood crutches better than anyone.

‘I guess we’re in a position with the business now to become patrons ourselves,’ Blake said.

‘Blake!’

The muscles in Blake’s neck tensed at the imperious voice. He took a deep breath as he turned around, his brother still speaking in his ear.

‘We can’t afford the one million quid that’s been yanked from their coffers,’ Charlie said.

Ava went to open her mouth but Blake was so shocked by the amount he held his finger up to indicate that she wait without realising what he was doing. ‘Joanna needs a million pounds?’

He watched Ava absently as Charlie rattled off the intricacies. By the look on her face and the miffed little arm-fold, she wasn’t accustomed to being told to wait. But holy cow—one million pounds?

‘I need you to move your car,’ Ava said, tapping her fingers on her arm, obviously waiting as long as she was going to despite Charlie still yakking in his ear. ‘I’m expecting a photographer from a magazine and your beat-up piece of junk spoils the ambience a little.’

Blake blinked at Ava’s request. She’d never seemed more frivolous or more diva-ish to him and he was exceptionally pleased this was the last time he’d ever have to see her.

Yes, she was sexy, and in a parallel universe where she wasn’t an elite supermodel and he wasn’t a glorified construction worker he might have even gone there—given it a shot.

But skin-deep beauty left him cold.

He quirked a you-have-to-be-kidding-me eyebrow but didn’t say a word to her as he spoke to Charlie. ‘I’ve got to go and shift my piece of junk car.’ He kept his gaze fixed to her face. ‘We’ll think of something for Joanna. I’ll call you when I’ve finished tonight.’

‘Who’s Joanna?’ Ava asked as Charlie hit the end button.

Blake stiffened. He didn’t want to tell Little-Miss-I’ve-got-a-photographer-coming Ava anything about his private life. But mind your own business probably wasn’t the best response either. ‘Our sister,’ he said, his lips tight.

‘Is she okay?’

Blake recoiled in surprise. Not just that she’d enquired about somebody else’s welfare but at the genuine note of concern in her voice. ‘She’s fine,’ he said. ‘The charity she runs has hit a bit of a snag, that’s all. She’ll bounce back.’

And he went and shifted his car so he wouldn’t besmirch her Hampstead Village ambience, the paparazzi blinding him with their flashes for the thousandth time.

* * *

It was close to nine that night when Blake—and the diva—were satisfied that the job was finally complete. The evening was still and warm. Tangerine fingers of daylight could be seen streaking the sky through the open glass panels over the courtyard. Blake was heartened that the long-range weather forecast for September was largely for more of the same.

Perfect boating weather.

Dougy and the other two workers had gone home; the photographer had departed, as had the paparazzi. It was just him and Ava signing off on the reno. Dotting all the i’s and crossing all the t’s.

They were, once again, at the kitchen island bench—him on one side, her on the other. Ava was sipping a glass of white wine while something delicious cooked on the state-of-the-art cooktop behind him. She’d offered him a beer but he’d declined. She’d offered to feed him but he’d declined that also.

No way was he spending a second longer with Ava than he absolutely had to.

Although the aromas of garlic and basil swirling around him were making him very aware of his empty stomach and his even more empty fridge.

He was also very aware of her. She’d pulled on some raggedy-arsed shorts and a thin, short-sleeved, zip-up hoodie thing over her bikini. The zip was low enough to catch a glimpse of cleavage and a hint of red material as she leaned slightly forward when she asked a question. But that wasn’t what was making him aware of her.

God knew she’d swanned around the house in varying states of undress for the last three months.

No. It was the way she was caressing the bench-top that drew his eye. As he walked her through the paperwork the palm of her hand absently stroked back and forth along the glassy maple-wood. He’d learned she was a tactile person and, despite his animosity towards her, he liked that.