I fiddle with the neckline of my silk blouse. A pale-blue, the material is just thick enough to keep my secrets hidden underneath. I stare at myself in the reflection of The Ritz’s glass window. I’d laughed until I’d cried when Gerard had told me the meeting with Baroness Fairclough was going to be at The Ritz. Who goes to The Ritz apart from tourists? Apparently, she does.

I’ve had three showers this morning, but I’m still uncomfortably hot and sweaty. I wish the rain would come and clear the air, but there hasn’t been a drop for weeks. I hike my leather tote containing my portfolio up onto my shoulder and push through the revolving door. Cool air from the air conditioning greets me as I step inside, for which I’m very grateful.

I wished Gerard had accompanied me, but he’d told me it would look better if I came alone. Bloody arse. Who sends a young woman by themselves to meet a baroness for a job interview? Gerard Steers does that’s who.

He prepped me last night though over a glass of wine and some crackers. I couldn’t eat, my stomach too twisted with knots. I approach the lounge, walking with my head held high in front of the reception desk. Once there, I’m stopped by a neat sign telling me to wait to be seated.

I glance around. The room is hushed with whispered conversations; groomed and coiffed heads tilted towards one another. Some of the tables have papers on them. People working in luxury.

It is luxury. Even the air smells rich and clean. Crisp. There aren’t that many obvious tourists. I was expecting a few overweight sightseers with their cameras flung around their necks on straps.

A waiter sees me and inclines his head in my direction while he continues helping another elderly couple. I smile and fiddle with the neck of my blouse. Calm down, Faith.

It’s hard to calm down. I’ve never been anywhere like this. The nearest I’ve got is a wine bar.

“Good afternoon,” the young man greets me warmly, his face open and friendly. Nothing forced, no sign that he hates his job or the rich people he must serve. “Are you joining us for coffee, or lunch perhaps?”

My tongue nearly falls out of my mouth, but if he notices my discomfort he calmly ignores it. How can he be calm in this place? I want to puke. Coughing and clearing my throat, I attempt to pull myself together. “I’m here to meet Baroness Fairclough.” I’m surprised by my voice coming out so calm and level. Inside I’m flapping about like a fish out of water. He hesitates before smoothing his expression. “Could you wait just one moment?”

My palms slick with sweat and I clutch my bag tighter, so I don’t wipe them down my silk blouse. “Sure.” I smile.

He walks off and ducks his head into a booth in the corner. A moment later he returns and asks me to follow, guiding me with his outstretched hand, careful not to touch me in any way. “Can I take your bag?”

I clutch it closer. “No, thank you, I’ll keep it with m—” my words die on my lips as I glance inside the booth.

This is no baroness. Not unless I’ve spent my life misunderstanding the title.

Instead of the middle-aged lady I’m expecting, there sits a man in the sharpest, neatest suit I’ve ever seen. You could cut bread with the edges of navy material.

Google has failed me. I’ll never trust you again Google. The man stands and towers over me, a clear head and shoulders higher than me, and his broad shoulders block the light in the room. His hair is close cropped, a dark fuzz; but it’s his eyes that render me totally mute. I’ve never seen anything like them, as deep as lapis lazuli, they are more vibrant than any gem I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen a few. I’m an artist for God’s sake.

“My apologies for the confusion; Miss Hitchin, I believe?” Oh God, his voice is soft, low, devilish. It licks warmth along my reeling insides.

“Faith. Your Faith.” What? “Sorry. I mean, I’m Faith, yes.” I brush at the ends of my ponytail, but there is no hiding the scorching burn travelling up my cheeks.

“You were expecting my mother, but she’s been held up.” His stunning gaze sweeps over my face. His own is open, his lips turned slightly at the edges as if something is amusing. What could possibly be amusing about this I don’t know. He’s tanned, his skin a dark gold, and a faint stubble darkens his jaw. I don’t think I’ve ever met a single human being in the flesh who is quite so beautiful.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is she running late?” I don’t know whether or not to take a seat. I’m experiencing total loser syndrome.

He takes control of the situation, smoothly moving around the booth and motioning for the velvet seat opposite his own. “She’s in New York. She got muddled with her dates,” he says as I slide into the seat.

“Oh,” I stutter. “Oh. Has she changed her mind?” I’m officially going to kill Gerard for making me deal with this. This is hell.

“Well, no, she wanted me to do this on her behalf.”

“Do you know a lot about art?” I snap. This was a waste of my time and anxiety, not to mention the packet of smokes I consumed as I paced outside the back of the hotel while I summoned the nerve to come in.

He lifts his shoulders, but his eyes never leave my face. It’s unsettling. “I know some, I guess.”

I raise an eyebrow. I bet he knows jack about art. “And you’re familiar with installations, and how they run? You know your mother’s plans and how she intends to use my time invested pieces to create her exhibition?”

He doesn’t answer but his lips twitch at the edge. I slide back out from my seat, and as I straighten my legs, I drop my bag on the floor. Curse it.

“You’ll forgive me if I cut this meeting short.” I bend to pick up my sprawled belongings but he’s already there, a long arm sweeping down to the floor, his slender fingers picking up my glasses case, and portfolio. I stand and hold out my hand to the outrageously handsome man in the expensive suit. “Please,” I say gesturing at my belongings.

He flicks through the pages, his focus settled on the sheets of my dreams and aspirations. “Sit.” He motions for the chair.

I glare. I am not a golden retriever. “I think I’ll stand.”

My rebuke is met with a casual lift of his shoulders. Digging somewhere deep inside me, I find the will to stand tall and nonchalant as he carelessly flicks through images of my soul’s work.

It’s like being exposed naked and gawped at. I’ve shown the portfolio to other people—of course I have—but I’ve never shown it to someone who looks quite like that in a suit before.

My nonchalant stance is undermined by the fact my damn eyes won’t behave themselves and sweep over his broad shoulders every twenty seconds. His hair is so short; really, it’s nothing more than a buzz cut. I don’t know why I thought rich people in suits like that would have artfully styled hair, straight out of an expensive salon or barbers.

I’m so busy on my internal discussion about his military buzz, I don’t notice his eyes lifting from the pages of my bound book to my face. I’m just staring at him. Maybe with drool. I lift fingers to my lips just to check. If he sees my indiscreet drool wipe he doesn’t acknowledge it. And, why would he? He looks like that… he probably has women launching themselves at his feet and hiking their skirts while he walks down the street.

Jesus, calm down, Faith.

In the three minutes he’s been staring at my work I’ve become ever so slightly psychotic.

“So, how do these pieces tie together? What’s your underlying theme?”

Gah, that level deep voice rumbles under my skin.

Does he realise how incredibly attractive he is? Probably.

I can’t think straight.

“I’d rather discuss this with your mother. I can’t help but think she’d be my beneficial audience.”

His stare is flat. Direct on my face. It doesn’t once drop to the neckline of my shirt where I know ink teases and waves from under the silk. “Gerard mentioned you were incredibly difficult,” he mutters.

Did he indeed? Gerard clearly wants a black eye.

I hold my hand out. I don’t have time for this. I have bar work I need to search for. Or… I need to think of going home…

He sighs and smooths his hands across the white tablecloth. Those fingers… my eyes stalk out on sticks.

He stands, and I assume he’s going to give me back my book and let me scurry away. Instead, with another small, half repressed sigh, he holds out his hand again to me in greeting. “Let’s start again.” His smile when it hits my face is like the beam of a lighthouse. It’s just… just… I don’t have anything to describe it with. It shines, it dimples, it glows with the light of a thousand suns. Okay, maybe I do have words, but they are the crap ramblings of a twelve- year-old.

“Elijah Fairclough.” The smile is still focused on my face. I don’t know what expression I’m pulling but I’m guessing it’s amusing because his smile morphs into a smirk.

I should leave, grab my bag and go. The wild beating of my heart I have going on is pathetic. If there is one thing I don’t do, it’s pathetic.

I shake his hand. “Faith Hitchin.”

He gestures for the seat and my legs instantly fold.

“I’m sorry she’s not here. What can I say? She’s easily waylaid at Barneys.”

I don’t smile. “Is this even a serious project? I don’t want to waste my time. This is my last summer before my final year.”

The lapis gaze locks onto my stare. “I can assure you this is a very serious project. Bowsley Hall is in need of a cash injection. We want to turn it into something useful to the community, to create a lasting initiative that will improve the fortunes of the building.”

“And an installation will do that how?”

“It will give an old tired house a new purpose.”

“Old and tired? That’s not much to say about your home.”

He chuckles wryly. “Oh, I don’t live there. Hell no.”

I raise both my eyebrows. “You aren’t selling it?”

He leans forward; his gaze hasn’t once broken from my face. “It’s got prospects I think you will like.”

“How do you know?”

He pushes my black bound book towards me, but I allow it to sit between us on the table. “I can tell.”

I narrow my gaze and his lips curve at the edges again.

“Can I offer you a drink? Or would you like lunch? We can discuss more.”

The thought of eating in front of this man makes me want to stab my eyes out with the silver fork on the table. “A drink would be okay.” Faith…

He waves for the hovering waiter. “What would you like?” Jeez, that gaze is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It makes me want to go home and grab out my paints and churn through them until I’ve found the perfect shade.

I haven’t touched my paints for four years.

“Whisky on ice.”

He raises two fingers to the waiter without saying a word. His other hand rests on my book and I want to snatch it away and run for the door. “I’m sorry about the setting. I don’t know why my mother insists on coming here.”

I sit on my hands because for some inexplicable reason they are shaking. “It’s an interesting choice.”

“Have you sold many pieces, Faith?” His change of direction takes me by surprise.

“Some. Gerard hooked me up with a couple of galleries who’ve sold pieces of my pottery.”

His eyes flick across my face at Gerard’s name and I can’t help but wonder what he knows. Does he know I slept with my lecturer? Did Gerard kiss and tell? I stare back, swallowing painfully.

“What do you prefer, sculpture or ceramics?”

I hesitate as he says ceramics. Most people with no knowledge say pottery.

My shoulders lift and fall. “Either.”

That unsettling blue lands directly on my face, dropping to my lips. “Sure.”

A frown scrunches my face. “Are you saying I’m lying.”

“No.”

Surely this doesn’t need to be so uncomfortable? What’s going on? I want to slap myself. This is the opportunity of a lifetime and I’m screwing it up, and all because his suit fits like it was cut onto his skin and his eyes are sharp enough to slice the surface of my skin. Who cares? It should be his mother I’m meeting.

The waiter brings our drinks, the ice clinking in the glass. I pick mine up as it barely touches the table and take a sip. The whisky is peaty and heady with malt depths. I lick my lips, enjoying the sour tingle on my tongue.

Maybe the alcohol will help me behave like a normal human being. Maybe.

He doesn’t touch his glass. If he’s not too careful, I might shoot it back.

“So can you tell me more? Why a residential? Why my sort of art? Wouldn’t a painter and a painting exhibition have a wider appeal?”

His fingers fan across the table, his right index finger still touching my book. “We don’t want to do something normal, that’s not the point.”

“Is this a royal we?” I smirk and take another sip of my drink. It burns in my veins and I welcome its warmth.

He frowns, his dark brows pulling together. “No, Peter is 18th in line to the throne. I think the chances of him making it onto the throne are slim.”

I watch his handsome face for a crack of humour, but no cute dimple appears. “Sorry, what?”

“Oh, I thought you were digging at the royal succession.”

My eyes widen. “No, I was taking the piss, oh, I mean the mick, uh.” I decide to stop talking, but then another question pops into my head. “Who’s Peter?”

There’s a pause and Elijah Fairclough’s face grows pensive. My hand itches for my paints. “He’s my elder brother.”

“Two of you?” Oh my god, I sound like a wanton lunatic.

“Three of us. Me, one older brother, and one baby sister.” His face hardens into an unreadable mask.

“And your mother is a baroness?”

He nods, but his gaze lingers on the pristine tablecloth.

I lean forward. I’ve never met a member of the aristocracy before. “And Peter is going to be the baron as well as in line for the throne?”

When Elijah meets my gaze, I’m sure I catch a flicker across his lips. “It’s an unusual succession, quite old and embroiled in tradition.”

“And you’re the sibling who got lumbered meeting me today?” I take another sip. “Shame for you.”

Finally, he picks up his own glass, and I watch mesmerised as he allows the iced liquid to slip between his sumptuous lips. Sumptuous lips? Someone shoot me now. “Something like that.”

I glower. “Maybe I should meet your mother when she’s back from her trip?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay.” I go to get my stuff. Honestly, I can cope without sitting at a table in a poncy over-priced bar with an egotistical prick who doesn’t want to be there.

“What gallery sells your work?”

“What?” I turn back to face him. He doesn’t seem to realise I’m leaving.

“What gallery sells your stuff?”

“Uh, Whitlocks in Whitechapel; they are only small.”

He nods.

“You know them?”

“Yes, I’ve bought a few bits from there.”

“You have, or your mother?”

He smiles, enigmatic. “I like you. You’re sharp, different.”

He doesn’t know how different; he doesn’t know that under my silk oversized blouse I have a multitude of secrets written on my skin.

“How’s your final piece for the year?”

“Sorry?” I’m going to get a migraine if this conversation carries on this way.

“You must be working on a final project? Next year will be the big pieces, right?”

“How do you know so much about it?”

Another shrug. “So how’s it going?”

“Terrible.” There’s no point in lying.

“Maybe you’ll let me see?”

I shake my head. “Not a chance.” Finding the will to move my stubborn legs, I step up from the table. “This has been different.”

He stands and holds his hand out again. His mummy must have trained him well. “We don’t seem to have got along.”

I chuckle a small laugh. “No, I’d say not. Maybe your mother can call when she gets back and then we can see how this might work. I’m guessing you have other people to see, maybe your meetings will go more smoothly with them.”

He inclines his head. “Maybe.”

“Good bye, Elijah,” I straighten my shoulders and swing my hips for the door, keeping my head held high.

That was fucking weird.

It’s only when I’m on the sweaty bus home, I realise I’ve forgotten my portfolio.

Shit.