Rupe closed the door behind him, still wearing the smile he’d had in Jayne’s office. Christ, that frosty exterior was going to be fun to melt. He wasn’t put off in the slightest by her summary dismissal. In fact, the challenge she posed made him more excited than he’d felt in a long time. With his wealth, success with women came easily. The difficulty was finding a woman who intrigued, who put fire in his belly, and who, with a simple haughty stare, pumped enough blood to his cock to keep him stiff all day.

And more than that, despite her frostiness, he liked her.

Outside Jayne’s office, he flagged down a passing black cab and gave his home address. The traffic was light, so he arrived home in fifteen minutes. As he entered through the front door, his phone rang. A spike of hope that it might be Jayne zinged through his gut. He took his phone out of his pocket. Unfortunately, optimism was replaced with reality.

“Thanks for the update.” Cash’s irritated voice almost sliced through his eardrum.

Rupe nudged the front door closed. “Sorry, bud. I’ve been a bit distracted.”

“I had to call the fucking station and put up with some condescending prick telling me they’d finished their questioning last night and let you go.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m still a bit all over the place.”

“So that’s it?” Cash said.

“I’m hoping so.”

“What did your lawyer say?”

A delicious shiver vibrated down Rupe’s spine. “Not much. Just if they pulled me in again to call her.”

“That’s good advice. Follow it.”

Oh, I’ll be following it all right.

“Are you going to make it over to see us before you go back to the Caribbean?” Cash asked.

“The police want me to stick around until this business with Nessa is sorted out.” That fact had irritated him at first, but now he quite liked the excuse of having to remain in London. It meant he could work on defrosting Jayne without awkward questions from Cash, who knew him too well. Rupe rarely spent more than a week at a time in London. “So, yeah, I’ll pop across in the next couple of days.”

“Okay, great. Stay in touch, dickhead.”

He smiled as Cash cut the call. He might not see as much of his friend as he used to since Cash and Tally had moved out of London—they preferred the countryside of Gloucestershire to bring up their kids—but they were always there if he needed them.

He fetched his laptop from his study and took it through to the kitchen. After putting a pot of coffee on, he began researching Ms Jayne Seymour. If he had any chance of persuading her to come to dinner, he needed an angle. In his experience, women only gave off such strong signals for men to keep away when they’d been badly hurt.

Time to find out how Jayne had got her scars.

* * *

As Jayne turned up for work on Friday, she made two promises to herself: one, she wasn’t working past six that night, and two, she was going to leave all her casework in the office and take the entire weekend off. She’d go to see Ganny, maybe stay over. And then, on Sunday, she could take the bus down to the coast. The sea air would regenerate her depleted batteries as it always did. She had to do something. She recognised the signs of burnout all too well.

Jayne waved at the night guard as she acknowledged to herself that she rarely saw daytime security. She usually arrived before their shift began and left after it had ended—another reason to keep promise number two.

The lift doors opened at her floor, and she juggled her laptop, her bag full of files, her handbag, and her keys. When getting the key in the lock proved to be a struggle, she dropped her bags on the floor, making the job of opening up much easier.

As she nudged at the door, the first thing that hit her was the smell. Her nostrils filled with the sweet scent of flowers. Pushing the door wide, she froze. Her office was full of white and pink roses. A bouquet sat on top of every available surface, including the narrow window ledge.

Leaving her bags outside, Jane edged farther into the room. She wandered around, touching the odd petal, the silkiness pleasant beneath her fingers. She looked for a card but couldn’t see one.

“Wow, did someone mistake your office for a florist’s?”

Jayne turned to find Donna leaning against the doorframe, an expression of amazement on her face.

Jayne narrowed her eyes. “Do you know anything about this? How did they get in here?”

Donna shook her head. “No idea. It’s pretty cool, though. You’ve clearly got an admirer.” She stepped over the threshold and stuck her nose into the nearest bouquet, sniffing deeply. “And one with a few bob to spare.”

As Donna said that, a realisation hit Jayne. Of course. This was just the sort of over-the-top gesture someone as rich as Rupert Fox-Whittingham would go for. She ground her teeth and let out a deep breath through her nose. Stepping behind her desk, she noticed a couple of bouquets in their own individual water pockets. Jayne moved them to one side and found an envelope with her name scrawled on the front in black ink.

She stuck her nail into the flap, opened it, and pulled out the note:

“Roses remind me of you, Jayne. Sweet scented, beautiful, intriguing. But get too close, and those thorns will tear through flesh with ease.”

The note had no signature, but it wasn’t necessary. That message was all the confirmation she needed. With her annoyance increasing to full-on anger, she scooped the bouquets off her desk and dumped them on the floor.

“Donna,” she said, her tone clipped and businesslike, making her PA stand up straight and replace the look of awe with a more professional expression. “Arrange to have these flowers taken to the nearest old people’s home, would you? And then cancel my morning appointments.”

* * *

It hadn’t taken Jayne very long to find out where Rupert Fox-Whittingham laid his head at night. As the taxi pulled up outside the large country-style house covered in ivy and—goddammit—roses over the door, her stomach twisted with annoyance. The problem with moneyed guys who also happened to be good-looking was that they thought they could have anything they wanted.

Well, she was there to tell Mr Fox-Whittingham once and for all that she wasn’t for sale. At any price.

As she walked to the front door, her heels sank into the gravel. Stupid, pretentious driveway. What’s wrong with good old-fashioned tarmac? Or paving flags? The only thing worse than gravel for a woman wearing heels was cobbles. Both must have been created by men who wanted to have a chuckle at women’s expense.

The strap on her bag fell down her arm as she reached up to rap on the door. She reset it on her shoulder and knocked a couple of times.

When the door opened, her mouth was already open, ready to give him a piece of her mind. The sight of a woman in her midforties standing in the hallway made it snap shut. Her dark hair was fashioned into a bun, wisps skimming her cheeks where they’d managed to break free from the many bobby pins.

“Hi,” the woman said in a friendly tone as she rubbed her flour-covered hands down her apron.

Jayne rocked back on her heels. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Rupert Fox-Whittingham. I must have the wrong house.”

“No, no, dear. You’re at the right place. I’m his housekeeper. Please do come in.” She stepped back from the doorstep and gestured for her to enter.

“Oh, I can’t stay. I just need a quick word.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “No need to stand on the front step when there’s a house full of rooms. Plus, I need a female opinion on the chocolate cake I made earlier.”

And with that, leaving the front door wide open with Jayne hovering at the entrance, Rupert’s housekeeper turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway.

Jayne expelled a sigh. This was not going to plan. She stepped inside the house and shut the door behind her. With her heels clacking on the stone floor, she followed in the direction she thought the housekeeper had gone. The generous hallway had several rooms to the left and right with their doors closed. Jayne followed her nose and found herself inside a large farmhouse-style kitchen—all oak cupboards and wooden tops, oiled to perfection. In the centre of the room was a huge island with chairs nestled beneath and various stainless-steel pans hanging overhead.

“I’m Abi.” The housekeeper placed a three-tiered chocolate cake on the centre island. She took out a large knife from a wooden block on the countertop and sliced into the cake. “You must be Jayne.”

Jayne tilted her head in surprise. “How do you know my name?”

Abi waved her hand dismissively before sticking a large triangular piece of chocolate cake on a plate and pushing it across to Jayne. “Rupert told me. He saw you getting out of the cab, asked me to let you in, and then disappeared off somewhere. He’ll be back shortly, no doubt.”

Jayne stiffened. She stared down at her hands and found she was clenching and unclenching them. He was unbelievable. He’d guessed why she’d come and used a stupid tactic to get her inside his house. Her face heated as anger flushed through her system.

“I’ll bet he did,” she muttered under her breath, and then said in a louder voice, “I can’t stay, unfortunately. Work and all that. I’ll text him.”

As she turned around, she came face-to-face with Rupert. He was standing with his arms braced on either side of the door to the kitchen, his white long-sleeved shirt stretched across the tight, flat muscles of his chest. Not looking at his chest. Nope. Nothing to see there. She dragged her gaze to his face. The damned man was laughing at her.

“Leaving already, Jayne? Surely not before we’ve had chance to chat.”

She crossed the kitchen and stood right in front of him. “I came by to tell you that the local old people’s home very much appreciates your kind gift. Oh, and to say that if you keep harassing me, or break into my office again, waking up next to a dead woman will be the least of your problems.”

Rupert’s lips curved into a smirk. “See, I was right about the thorns. Thing is, Jayne, I have a very high pain threshold. A few scratches here and there aren’t likely to damage me.”

“Probably not,” she said, forcing her lips into a smile that no doubt looked more like a grimace. “But a knee to the balls will. So hear me loud and clear. I’m. Not. Interested. Got it?”

Rupert threw back his head and laughed. “You are enchanting. Fascinating. Come on. One dinner. That’s all I ask. And if, by the end of the night, the thought of me still makes your skin crawl, I’ll back away, and you’ll never have to see me again.”

Jayne rubbed her fingers over her lips as she considered the offer from the annoying-as-hell man who stood before her, his arms still barring her exit. His actions so far told her he wasn’t simply going to disappear or leave her in peace, and while she could get rid of him legally by slapping a restraining order on him, she didn’t want to do that. He didn’t deserve such harsh treatment, and in the unlikely event the police did come sniffing around again, asking more questions about the death of Vanessa Reynolds, it wouldn’t look good if his own lawyer had taken out a restraining order. He was as annoying as a fly buzzing round her head, though. If only she could swat him away so easily. Or squirt him with a good dose of Raid.

“Fine,” she said, drawing a winning smile from Rupert. “One dinner. Tonight, or never. And I want to eat at The Berkeley.”

She added the latter with a wicked smile. Getting a table at The Berkeley at such short notice would be nigh on impossible, which would mean she’d be able to legitimately renege on the deal. At least trying to secure a booking would give him something to do for the rest of the day.

“Perfect,” he said, not even remotely thrown by her set of demands. “Marcus Wareing is a dear friend. I’m sure he’ll sort me out. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.”

Jayne inwardly cursed. Marcus Wareing was the owner of the Michelin-starred restaurant at The Berkeley. She’d thrown down an impossible challenge only to find that the man standing in front of her was more than up to the task. With an irritated huff, she brushed past him and walked outside, feeling manipulated and backed into a corner.

Still, it was one dinner. She might manage that without killing him.