Jayne’s legs faltered as she staggered through her apartment door. Her eyes were stinging, both from lack of sleep and from the lateness of the hour. Added to her discomfort were the spasms that kept shooting up her spine, no doubt made worse by that awful metal chair in the police interview room.

She dropped her bag by the door and kicked her shoes off, letting them thud against the wall. Then she walked over to the thick rug that separated her living space from the open-plan kitchen. She curled her toes into the soft fibres, her feet aching like an absolute bitch.

The clock in the kitchen caught her eye. One fifteen. She had to be up at six. Life sucked sometimes, and she potentially had yet another case on her plate unless Darren kept to his word and took over. Although, with any luck, the police would drop any suspicions against her client, and she could file him away under “no further action required.”

As her mind turned to her client, her skin prickled with irritation. Arrogant little bastard. She might have put his considerable ego down to his wealth, but over the years, she’d come across cocky sods without two pennies to rub together. In her experience, overconfidence rarely had anything to do with the size of a person’s bank balance.

Rupert Fox-Whittingham. Even his name annoyed her. And when he’d made that almost-comment about the size of his penis… what a cock.

She chuckled at her own joke as she wandered to the fridge. Greeted with virtually bare shelves, she took out a pasta salad that was two days beyond its expiration date. Figuring that eating the salad wouldn’t kill her, she peeled off the cellophane wrapper and tossed the packaging into the bin. In five minutes flat, she’d emptied the plastic container. Still feeling unsatisfied, she took a litre of ice cream from the fridge and began to eat it straight out of the carton. Mmm, peanut butter. Her favourite. Her hips and belly would disagree, but as she’d barely eaten in three days, she figured she’d earned a few high-calorie spoonfuls.

Halfway through the carton, she caught hold of herself and replaced the lid. Eating a whole litre of ice cream wouldn’t make her feel better. Instead, she’d probably be up all night with a stomach ache. She put the dirty spoon and fork in the dishwasher and headed off to bed.

As she burrowed beneath the covers, a soft sigh escaped her. There wasn’t much that could beat clean sheets and a bed she could spread out in. Her untidy sleeping style had been a source of consternation between her and Kyle for years. He’d been a very neat sleeper. He went to bed and woke up in the same position, the covers barely moving in the night. Her side of the bed, on the other hand, looked as though a tornado had blown through while they’d been sleeping.

Not that she needed to worry about that any more. Kyle’s sleeping habits were no longer her concern.

A twinge of regret pinched at her insides. She closed her eyes and willed her brain to switch off. One of the negatives of getting home so late was the lack of affordability on the downtime stakes. She’d barely get four and a half hours’ kip, even if she fell straight to sleep—which she wouldn’t.

Jayne was still staring at the green digital display of her alarm clock at two thirty in the morning without having managed one minute of unconsciousness. She shoved the covers to one side and padded into the kitchen to make a cup of warm milk.

She set the pan on the stove and poured in the milk before turning the gas to a low heat. While it was warming up, she wandered into the living room and stared out of the window. The full moon cast a shimmering glow across the Thames, the water as still as a millpond.

As the sound of hissing milk reached her, she crossed the living room and turned off the gas. After pouring the bubbling liquid into a cup, she blew across the top and took a sip. Needs sugar. She added three heaped spoonfuls and took another sip. Better.

She set the steaming drink on a coaster on her bedside table and slipped beneath the covers once more. Perhaps a few minutes of reading combined with the milk would do the trick. She opened her bedside drawer and took out her current book, a novel she’d started weeks ago. She was still only on chapter four. It wasn’t that she didn’t like reading. In fact, immersing herself in a story far from her own life soothed her. It was simply a matter of time—or rather the lack of it.

As her eyes scanned the typeface, her lids slowly began to droop. The book fell into her lap, and she felt herself drifting through that heavenly moment between consciousness and slumber.

And then her damn phone dinged with a text.

Her eyes snapped open. If that was Kyle, she would cut his goddamn balls off. Metaphorically, of course. Unfortunately, grievous bodily harm to one’s cheating ex wasn’t acceptable in civilised society. More’s the pity.

She lifted her phone. The text was from a mobile but not a number she recognised.

With a frown, she read the message: How about dinner tomorrow night?

It was signed “RFW.”

Her immediate thought was, Are you fucking kidding me?

And… it didn’t stay a thought. She stabbed out those five words into her phone and hit Send.

His reply came straight back:

Aww, come on, Jayne. I’ll make sure you have fun. Go on, change the habit of a lifetime and let your hair down.

He’d even added a winking emoji at the end.

Jayne decided that engaging in a tit-for-tat texting session wouldn’t get her anywhere. Instead, she turned down the volume on her phone, set it upside down so the light going off wouldn’t disturb her, and buried her head under the covers.

She was vaguely aware of a couple more texts arriving—which she studiously ignored—but at last sleep claimed her.

The following morning, she arrived at the office before seven thirty. It would be an hour or so before Donna arrived, so she started the coffee percolator, which her absolute gem of a PA had already prepared the previous day for a straight switch-on.

She sank into her chair. Another rammed day loomed ahead. She needed a holiday—some downtime. Sand, sun, and a never-ending supply of mojitos sounded like… an impossible dream, given her caseload. Right then, she vowed that as soon as the three imminent cases she was working on were over, she’d take a break. She could at least fit in a long weekend in Barcelona, a city that had everything: culture, great food, and a damn fine beach.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Donna had left a gap in Jayne’s diary to allow her to grab some lunch. God bless that woman. Her PA would happily grab her a bite to eat, but Jayne preferred to get her own. The fifteen minutes standing in a queue at the deli was often the only break she got.

As Jayne rose from her chair to go and get a sandwich, a light tap sounded at her door.

“Come in,” she called out.

Donna poked her head into Jayne’s office. “I know you’re probably going to lunch soon, but you have a visitor.”

Jayne mouthed, “Not Kyle?”

Donna shook her head, but before she could explain who the visitor was, the office door eased wide-open, and standing there with a foppish grin to rival Hugh Grant was Rupert Fox-Whittingham.

“Sorry to disturb,” he said, his expression the direct opposite of his apologetic words. He flashed Donna a full-on white-toothed smile. “Thanks, darling. You’re a dream.”

Donna blushed and coyly dipped her head. Jayne repressed a groan. Her PA wasn’t a blusher. Damn Rupert Fox-Whittingham and his plum-in-the-mouth charm. Donna gave Jayne a contrite smile as Rupert sauntered into her office and made himself at home on her couch.

As the door closed with a quiet click, Rupert crossed his legs, spread his right arm over the back of her sofa, and patted the spare seat beside him. “Come and sit with me, Jayne.”

She ignored his invitation, choosing instead to sit back behind her desk. “What are you doing here, Mr Fox-Whittingham?”

“You didn’t answer my texts.”

“No, that’s right. I didn’t. And normally, when one is ignored, one gets the hint.”

He grinned at her, the smile slowly reaching his warm chocolate eyes and making them sparkle like diamonds set against a velvet backdrop. She turned away. She didn’t want to notice his eyes. She had sworn off men, and this posh git wasn’t about to change that, especially as he was a client.

“And because you didn’t answer, you gave me no choice but to turn up here at your—may I say—delightful offices to extend my invitation to dinner in person.”

Jayne held back a laugh. The man was a walking, talking throwback to the fifties.

“Well, I’m sorry you had a wasted journey,” Jayne said, pointing her pen at the door. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a very busy afternoon.”

That smile came at her again, slowly inching its way into her psyche. She turned away and began to write utter rubbish on her pad. Doodles, random words, anything to avoid those come-to-bed eyes and inviting smile.

A slight rustle reached her ears, but she refused to look up—until the damn man perched his left buttock on the corner of her desk. The corner right beside her.

She held her body still. Only her head moved. She fixed him with the disdainful stare usually reserved for Kyle. “What do you think you are doing?”

“Moving closer.” He bent his head until his nose was about an inch from her hair. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You smell of summer, Jayne. Intoxicating.”

A fluttering set off in her abdomen. Oh no, this was not happening. She needed this man out of her office. Right now.

She pushed back her chair and got to her feet. Avoiding his end of the desk, she strode across to the other side of her office and opened the door. “As I said, Mr Fox-Whittingham, I’m busy. I’m very glad that I could be of service to you yesterday, but as our business is concluded, I would like you to leave.”

Rupert ambled towards her, his gait that of a man who was uberconfident and usually got what he wanted. Well, isn’t disappointment a bitch.

As he reached her, he paused. “Just one dinner. How bad could it be?”

“I don’t go on dinner dates with my clients.”

“You just said our business was concluded.”

“Or ex-clients. Goodbye, Mr Fox-Whittingham.”

He leaned forward, and his breath caressed the shell of her ear as he whispered, “I’m starting to like it when you call me that.”

And with a final quick wink, he left.