Kate Hewitt - Highly Unsuitable - Mr and Mischief / The Darkest of Secrets / The Undoing of de Luca

It amazed her to think that Jason desired her now, had been intimating that he wanted there to be something between them now.

But what? A kiss? A fling? Clearly, he wasn’t proposing marriage, and that was the last thing she wanted anyway. She wasn’t in love with Jason; she wasn’t in love with anyone. But she wanted him. And he wanted her.

It could be so very simple. She wouldn’t get hurt, just as she’d told him. So why was she still mired in doubt?

Perhaps, Emily reflected, it was because it seemed so impossible for Jason to want her physically. And even for her to want him. They had so much history, so many shared memories and moments that were at odds with what he was feeling now. What she was feeling.

If she were honest, the thought of Jason actually desiring her terrified and excited her in equal amounts. She’d never thought of him that way, never dared to … and yet another part of her sly mind whispered that in reality she’d always thought of him that way, or wanted to. That was why that dance—and almost-kiss—seven years ago had actually devastated her. even though she’d convinced herself for so long that it hadn’t. That it had been nothing.

And now? Emily didn’t know what the truth was, or could be. She was afraid to find out. Maybe Jason hadn’t meant that at all anyway. Perhaps he’d just been teasing her as usual, and she’d read far too much into a few throwaway remarks because her own need was suddenly so great. Maybe she was making everything up in her mind, and the next time she saw Jason he would be back to his familiar, mocking self, one eyebrow arched, a faint smile curving his mouth.

Oh, that mouth.

She really was a mess. An obsessed mess, she acknowledged as she kept checking her phone and surfing the Internet and looking for clues to the truth about Jason because he wasn’t there in person. Even if he had been she knew she did not yet possess the courage to confront him about any of it.

Meanwhile November drifted into December, and the charity fund-raiser at Jason’s flat loomed closer. Emily could barely hide her surprise when Gillian Bateson approached her again, for help with the organisation.

‘I thought you had it well in hand?’ she asked, surveying Gillian from across her desk. The older woman looked a little more subdued than usual. Her hair was not as immaculately styled and her nail varnish was chipped. Her smile seemed a bit fixed.

‘Oh, I do, of course I do. But I thought you might like a peek at Jason’s penthouse. It’s fab, you know—or actually you don’t—’

Emily gritted her teeth. ‘I’m sure it is, and I’ll see it at the party. I don’t really need a … a peek.’ Even if she was intensely curious about where Jason lived. Where Jason slept.

Gillian paused, her gaze sliding away from Emily’s. ‘Actually, I could use a little help,’ she said, the admission drawn from her with obvious reluctance. ‘It turns out my daughter is visiting that weekend, and I promised to take her out for a bit—’ She glanced back at Emily, her laugh a little wobbly. ‘You have no idea how demanding pre-teens are.’

‘I can imagine, considering I was one myself once.’ Emily smiled, surprised and gratified by this insight into Gillian’s life. She knew it was practically killing her to ask for help, but Emily was glad she had. And she was honest enough to admit to herself she did want a peek at Jason’s flat—badly. ‘I’d be happy to help, Gillian.’

After Gillian left her office Emily stared at her computer screen, restless yet needing to work. She had not been able to concentrate on anything. Her fingers drummed on her desktop and she glanced at her to-do list scribbled on a spare piece of paper. She was meant to follow up a shortlist of applications for an assistant in the legal department, arrange the details for an expatriate hire, and draft an email regarding intra-office communications. And that was just this morning. Sighing, she reached for her empty coffee mug.

She was just about to stagger to the coffee machine when her mobile rang. She glanced at the number; it was Philip.

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he practically purred. ‘Heading out to any Christmas parties this weekend?’

Emily thought of the unanswered invitations scattered across her mantelpiece. ‘I don’t think so, Philip.’

‘I’ve got two tickets to a new art exhibit in Soho,’ Philip told her. ‘Very exclusive. You free?’

A ripple of unease made its way down Emily’s spine. Why was Philip inviting her? ‘I don’t think so, Philip. I’m quite busy this weekend.’ She let out a little gasp, as if she’d just thought of something wonderful. ‘I know. Why don’t you ask Helen? You’ve been seeing a lot of her lately, haven’t you?’

‘I don’t know whether I’d say a lot,’ Philip replied, his tone one of bored dismissal. Emily froze, her fingers clenched around her mobile. This was not how Philip was meant to talk about Helen. Yet despite the icy feeling of dread developing in the pit of her stomach, she could not give up so easily.

‘Well,’ she said brightly, ‘I’m sure she’d love to go to an art exhibit … and you two were certainly cosy when we all went out to the theatre.’ She let out a little suggestive laugh, waiting for Philip’s affirmation, but instead he just gave a rather dry chuckle.

‘Only because you dragged her along.’

Emily nearly dropped her phone. ‘But … but Philip!’ she said, her voice rising to something between a squeak and a shriek. ‘You were so … you sat next to her … you touched her hair.’ She sounded ridiculous, Emily thought distantly, but surely she couldn’t have been so terribly mistaken. So wrong.

‘You thought I was interested in Helen? ‘ Philip asked, and then laughed. There was nothing funny about that laugh, nothing warm or generous. It was a laugh of scorn, of mockery. It made Emily’s insides shrivel. ‘Come on, Emily. She’s a lovely girl, of course, but.’ He sounded horribly patronising.

‘But?’ Emily prompted coldly.

‘Well, she’s not our sort, is she?’ Philip said, and Emily could tell he was trying to be reasonable. ‘I thought you were dragging her around as some sort of charity case, and I was nice enough to her because of that, but you couldn’t actually think.’ He laughed again, and Emily closed her eyes.

Oh, no. No, no, no. This was not how she’d imagined this conversation going at all. Philip was supposed to start gushing about Helen, and how lucky he was, and Emily had even envisioned a little teary-eyed gratitude towards the person who had pushed them together. Push being the operative word.

This was bad. This was very, very bad for Helen, and almost as bad for her because it meant she’d been horribly, humiliatingly wrong.

And Jason had been right.

Both realisations were equally painful. She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Then I think you’ve been a bit unfair to Helen,’ she said, her voice tight with both anger and guilt. ‘You’ve certainly spent enough time with her so she might think—’

‘You’re the one who seems to think something,’ Philip cut her off. ‘Not Helen.’

There was too much truth in that statement for Emily to object. She had encouraged Helen. If she’d given her a word of caution instead, who knew how much of this mess might have been averted. And, Emily was forced to acknowledge miserably, she’d encouraged Helen at least in part because it had been a way of proving something to Jason. Of showing him he was wrong.

Except it looked like he wasn’t.

‘Well, I’m afraid I’m not free this weekend, Philip,’ Emily said, her voice decidedly frosty. ‘Goodbye.’