Canada Square (Love in London #3) (24 page)

It radiates inward, soaking into my muscles. He drags his hands lower, feathering down my spine, cupping my bottom as he pulls me to him.

I thread my fingers into his hair, tugging hard, needing to have him closer still. I want to feel, to be felt, to forget about everything except just how good it is to be in his arms.

“What was that for?” Callum asks when we separate. He’s as breathless as I am, his chest rising and falling rapidly. I place my hand in the centre, feeling his heartbeat, my fingers splayed out against his firm torso.

“I was just saying hello,” I reply innocently.

“In that case, I can’t wait to see how you say goodbye.”

Smirking, I give him a wave of my hand and spin on my heels, heading towards the front door. “Bye!”

“Oh no you don't,” he growls, grabbing my wrist and pulling me back. “You’re staying here tonight.”

I twirl, feeling light-hearted and giddy. This is what he does to me, every time.

“Oh, you want me to stay?” I bat my lashes at him.

“You’re staying whether you like it or not.”

“Ooh,” I purse my lips. “Like a love slave.”

“A willing love slave,” he says, feathering his hands down my sides. “One who won’t know what’s hit her just as soon as I’ve thrown her onto my bed.”

“Is that a threat?” I murmur, running a finger along his jaw. It’s rough and dark from a day’s growth of beard.

“It’s a promise, sweetheart. There are some things you should know about me by now. I like my coffee bitter, my women sweet and I always keep my promises.” With that, he lifts me up until my legs wrap around his waist, and carries me to his bedroom, throwing me on the mattress so hard that I bounce a couple of times. I only still when he lays on top of me.

“I can’t promise to be sweet,” I say, as his fingers impatiently tug at the buttons on my blouse. He pulls it open, until the white silk is covering only my arms, and my chest is exposed to the air. Sliding his fingers underneath the straps of my bra, he pushes them to the side until the cups fall down, and I’m almost naked from the waist up.

A shot of pure pleasure pulses through me when he pulls one of my nipples between his lips, his stubble scratching my skin as it skims my breast. My toes curl as he presses his palm to my stomach. His hand moves down, beneath my waistband and a soft sigh escapes my lips.

“So fucking sweet,” he says, his words vibrating against me.

I’m too far gone to say anything, but I have to admit I agree wholeheartedly.

26

The next morning starts with a panic. I realise too late that I have no clean work clothes with me, and the thought of turning up to the office in yesterday’s suit is too embarrassing. So I end up travelling halfway across London at some ungodly hour of the morning, taking a taxi-ride of shame.

Callum thinks it’s hilarious. He goes as far as to offer me one of his shirts, which is tantamount to tattooing the details of our relationship across my forehead. When I tell him ‘no’, he shrugs, a grin still on his face, and I can hear his guffaws when I step out onto the street.

A few minutes later I receive a text. By that point I’ve already hailed a cab, hoping against hope that the morning rush hour hasn’t started yet.

You’re going to be late. You know that, right?

He’s a smug bastard, but at least he’s not as stupid as me. How difficult is it to remember that you actually need clean underwear and clothes if you’re staying at somebody’s house?

The taxi pulls up at some temporary traffic lights, and the cacophony of a road drill joins the growling of the engine to make my ears hurt. “Busy out there today,” the driver remarks. “You going anywhere nice?”

I look down at my wrinkled skirt and blouse. “I need to pick something up.”

Another message from Callum arrives after we get past the road works. It’s already eight-thirty and I’m nowhere near home. This time it’s a photograph—a large Styrofoam cup with steam rising up from the rim. From the background I can tell he’s at his desk, and I try to ignore the jealous hunger that rumbles from the pit of my empty stomach.

I send him back a rolling-eyes emoji and switch my phone off, determined to have the last word. All thoughts of revenge are forgotten, as I squeeze my hour-long morning routine into thirty minutes. A perfunctory shower is followed by a spray of dry shampoo and a layer of makeup. By the time I finally walk into the office building I feel as though I’ve already done a full day’s work.

Maybe that’s why I don’t notice the silence. Or the fact there’s somebody sitting at my desk, until I’m practically sat on their lap.

“Oh, I didn’t see you there.” I jump back, my forehead crinkling with confusion. Diana Joseph from HR looks up at me with cool-blue eyes, and closes the top drawer of my desk.

Immediately I’m on edge. Why would she be going through my desk? It’s not as if there’s anything valuable in there—and nothing private—but the nonchalant invasion of my personal space seems so out of character.

“Amethyst,” she says calmly, standing up and pushing the chair beneath the desk. “You need to come with me.”

I glance at my watch. “I’m due in a meeting in twenty minutes.”

“I’ve cancelled it. Just put your things down and we can go somewhere quiet.”

Small beads of perspiration start to form on my upper lip. “What’s this about?”

The smile she gives me is anything but friendly. “Not here, let’s go to my office.”

Five minutes later she’s closing the door behind us and offering me a seat. Her office is much like her—well organised and pristine, with no stray pieces of paper or half-eaten chocolate bars marring the surface of her desk. To the left of her computer screen is a picture frame, showing a man who must be her husband, and her two perfectly-turned out children. It looks more like a Calvin Klein advert than a family photo.

“I need to talk to you about something serious,” she says as soon as she’s seated on her leather swivel chair. “This isn’t a disciplinary hearing, although I do need to warn you that disciplinary action could follow. Anything we discuss today could be used as part of that action.”

Her words sound eerily similar to the Miranda rights I’m used to hearing in American cop shows. There’s no smile on her face now, no softness in her expression, just a piercing directness that tells me I’m in a lot of trouble.

My mind flies to all the things that have happened over the past months. The reprimands for drunken behaviour, the way Charlie and I spilled the cocaine on the pavement outside the pub. Then I wrack my brains to think of anything I’ve done wrong recently.

It comes up blank until I think of Callum. If anything had happened, he would have called me, wouldn’t he? Warned me that we’d been discovered and I was about to walk into this.

Of course he would have called… and it would have gone straight to voicemail because I turned my phone off after his last message.

Shit.

A wave of nausea appears from nowhere, scratching at my throat, making my nose sting. I’m only half a breath away from throwing up when Diana opens a blue file in front of her.

“I had an interesting email this morning, making some accusations against you and a colleague. Is there anything you want to share with me?” She lifts a printed email from the folder.

“No.”

“It would be better for you to come clean. Confess everything. I can explain to the disciplinary hearing that you cooperated.”

I swallow hard, though my mouth and throat are so dry that it makes me cough. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done wrong.”

“Do you remember signing this when you joined us?” Diana pushes another sheet of paper towards me. I recognise it immediately; it’s the Code of Conduct she had all us interns sign on our first day at Richards and Morgan.

I take it from her, skimming it quickly. My signature is at the bottom in loopy blue ink. “Yes, I remember.” My voice is low, cautious.

“And you’re aware that fraternisation is strictly forbidden?”

“Fraternisation?” I question.

“Office affairs.” There’s a sigh in her voice. “You’re aware that office affairs are forbidden. You signed the paper after all.”

“I said I did,” I snap, then immediately want to change my tone. Any remaining bravado flows out with my words, leaving behind a mixture of shock and fear.

“Then I’m sorry to say you’ve been accused of contravening that policy.”

This time she passes me a photograph. Though it’s grainy—printed in black and white—there’s no doubt that the two people in the picture are Callum and me, locked in an embrace next to the second-floor bathroom door.

“Is that you?” she asks.

For one moment I consider denying it. Telling her it must be someone else—another twenty-something with dark hair and a blunt fringe.

“I don’t know.” I can’t even come out with a sensible retort. My mind is so full of conflicting thoughts that it can’t process properly.

“I have a statement from another employee which confirms that the two people in this photograph are you and Mr Callum Ferguson. Your boss.”

“He’s not my boss,” I say weakly. “Not any more.”

Diana leans her head to the side, still staring at me. “This isn’t a time to play semantics, Miss Cartwright. Do you understand how serious this is? You’ve been accused of contravening a Company policy. The consequences could be dismissal, which not only means you’ll lose your job, but also your chance of getting your degree. Of course we will have to inform your university of the accusations, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re punished by them, too.”

The tone of her voice is calm, but there’s something else in it. An edge of relish, or maybe even self-importance.
She’s enjoying this
. She actually wants to see me in trouble; maybe it’s a big improvement to her normally-mundane Tuesdays.

I’m panicking, even while I’m trying to keep my exterior as calm as possible. I’ve worked hard for this degree, and the thought of it being snatched away makes me want to throw something at the wall. Tears sting beneath my eyelids, and I reach up, wiping them away, because I really don’t want her to know how truly frightened I am.

“Aren’t I supposed to have somebody with me in a meeting like this?” I ask. I’m not sure it’s true or if I’m getting mixed up with those cop shows again. Maybe I should call a lawyer or something. But I don’t have the money to pay for one, and Richards and Morgan could pay for dozens without blinking an eyelid. It’s David against Goliath and I don’t have a slingshot.

“This is simply part of the investigation,” Diana says, snatching the Code of Conduct out of my hand. “I’m trying to find out all the details before I hand it over to the hearing.”

I grip the arms of my chair tightly. My stomach feels as though I’ve been sitting on a rollercoaster. Tight and sickly.

“And if I say nothing?”

“This isn’t a court, Amethyst. The more information we have, the better your chances are. If you show regret, and if you tell me everything you know, then maybe there’s an opportunity to save your job.” Her voice drops, as if she’s suddenly become a conspirator, rather than an accuser. “I’m sure Mr Ferguson is telling his side of the story.”

A memory flashes into my head. This morning when I lay in Callum’s bed, watching him shaving through the crack in the bathroom door. He’d caught my stare and stopped, half his jaw still covered in foam, and given me a deliciously wicked smile. Then his eyes had softened and I’d felt a real and deep bond between us.

Did I imagine it? He wouldn’t throw me to the wolves in an effort to keep his own job, would he? Was I being stupidly naive, believing that love would trump everything, and nothing else mattered except how we felt about each other?

Your degree matters, the voice in my head tells me. Your degree, your job and your future. Are you really going to give those up for a man? You’re just like your mother, throwing everything away for a roll in the hay.

I start to heave, quickly covering my mouth with my sweaty palm. Diana stands up, her eyes wide, and pushes me towards the door. Somehow I make it into the bathroom, falling to my knees as I vomit up the contents of my stomach, spasms wracking my stomach.

When the sickness subsides, I splash my face with some water at the basin, though it does nothing to calm the redness of my eyes. I try to wipe away the mascara that has smudged beneath them, but all I manage to do is make myself look more haunted.

Diana is waiting for me outside the bathroom, as if I’m a naughty schoolchild needing to be escorted everywhere. She even takes my wrist, pulling me along, but I feel too weak to protest.

Outside her office a shadow falls over us. I look up, a flash of hope shooting through me that somehow Callum’s come to save the day. When I realise it’s Jonathan, my shoulders drop, and I have to close my eyes to prevent the tears from starting again.

“What’s going on?” Jonathan asks. His lips are thin and tight.

“Nothing for you to be concerned about,” Diana replies, a little too breezily, “Just something I need to discuss with Amy.”

I notice that she uses my preferred name for the first time.

“I
am
concerned,” Jonathan says. “I’m Amy’s boss and she’s supposed to be working on my project. There’s a critical meeting this afternoon and I need her input.” When he glances at me, his eyes widen. “Are you okay, you don’t look very well?”

“I’ve been sick,” I say. I want to tell him more, but I’ve no idea what Callum has said. I feel completely alone.

“Then you should go home,” he replies firmly. “I’ll call you a cab, we can charge it to the project.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Diana folds her arms in front of her chest. It’s as though the two of them are fighting over a toy. “I need to finish interviewing her before she leaves.”

“She’s clearly unwell,” Jonathan says. “Let her go and you can finish your meeting when she’s feeling better. I’m her boss, I’m responsible for her welfare.”

Diana opens her mouth to protest, then closes it with a snap. Shaking her head, she shrugs and steps back, giving Jonathan enough space to step forward and put his arm across my shoulders. He leads me down the corridor as I try to swallow down the bile that’s collecting in my throat.

“Make sure you keep your phone on,” Diana shouts, before we turn the corner. “I’ll call you later to rearrange the meeting.”

I don’t reply, because Jonathan is opening the door to his office and ushering me inside. He shakes his head when his PA starts to talk to him. Instead he sends her out for coffee, closing the door firmly behind her, and sits me down in the easy chair next to the window. Then he hands me a handkerchief and hunkers down in front of me, an expression of concern written across his face.

“I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”