Denied

‘You must be mistaken.’ I raise my chin and work hard on keeping my voice even. ‘The Miller Hart I know has an appreciation for his possessions.’



‘Don’t!’ He takes my arm, but I yank it free.



‘You wanted to continue with your secret life of f**king woman after woman, and you wanted me to make myself readily available for you to f**k when you got home.’ I mentally correct myself. He called it destressing, but he can call it what he likes. The principle is still the same.



He freezes me in place with adamant eyes. ‘I’ve never f**ked you, Livy. I’ve only ever worshipped you.’ He steps forward. ‘I only ever made love to you.’



I draw a long, calming breath. ‘You didn’t make love to me in that hotel room.’



His eyes clench shut briefly, and when they reopen, I see anguish pouring from them. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing.’



‘You were doing what Miller Hart does best,’ I spit, hating the venom in my tone and the mild shock that passes across his heart-stopping face as a result of my statement. Many women may think that that’s what London’s most notorious male escort does best, but I know different. And deep down, so does Miller.



He watches me for a moment, unspoken words swimming in his gaze. It’s right now that understanding slams through me. ‘You think I’m a hypocrite, don’t you?’



‘No.’ He shakes his head mildly . . . unconvincingly. ‘I accept what you did when you ran away and gave yourself . . .’ He pulls up. He can’t finish. ‘I accept why you did it. I hate it. It makes me hate Anderson even more. But I accept it. I accept you.’



Shame eats away at me, and I momentarily lose my fortitude. He accepts me. And reading between the lines, I think he wants me to accept him. Take me as I am, Olivia.



I shouldn’t. I can’t.



When an eternity passes and I’ve mentally sprinted through every reason to walk away, I hold his gaze and reel off my own version of his words. ‘I don’t want other women to taste you.’



His body goes lax on an exhale of defeated breath. ‘It’s not as easy as just quitting.’



Those words are like a bullet to my head, and with nothing left to say, I turn and walk away, leaving my perfect Miller Hart, still looking perfect in the pouring rain.



Chapter Three



The week is passing painfully slowly. I’ve seen my shifts through at the bistro and avoided Gregory, and I’ve not returned to the gym. I want to, but I can’t risk seeing Miller. Every time I seem to edge forward a little, he seems to sense it and materialises from nowhere – mainly in my dreams, a few times in reality – to put me back at square one.



Nan appears at the lounge doorway and takes a few moments to dust the nearby bookshelf before swiping the remote control from my hand. ‘Hey, I was watching that!’ I wasn’t watching it at all, and even if I had been utterly engrossed and interested in the documentary on fruit bats, Nan wouldn’t give a stuff.



‘Hush your mouth and help me decide.’ She throws the remote onto the couch next to me and runs into the hallway, returning quickly with two dresses on hangers. ‘I can’t choose,’ she says, holding one up to the front of her body. It’s blue with bright yellow flowers scattered all over it. ‘This one’ – she swaps it for a green dress – ‘or this one?’



I sit up a little and flick my eyes between the two. ‘I like both.’



Her navy eyes roll. ‘Fat lot of help you are.’



‘Where are you going?’



‘Dinner-dance with George on Friday.’



I smile. ‘Are you going to rock the ballroom?’



‘Pfft!’ She shakes her head and performs a little jig, making my smile widen. ‘Olivia, your grandmother rocks just about anything she does.’



‘True,’ I admit, scanning the dresses again. ‘The blue one.’



The smile that graces her face replaces some of the lingering coldness that has resided for days, sending a brief shot of warmth to my heart. ‘I think so, too.’ She throws the green one aside and holds the favourite up against her. ‘It’s perfect for dancing.’



‘Is it a competition?’



‘Not officially.’



‘You mean it’s just a dance?’



‘Oh, Olivia, it’s never just a dance.’ She twirls and flicks her grey bob, for what it’s worth. ‘Just call me Ginger.’



I chuckle. ‘And is George your Fred?’



She sighs, exasperated. ‘God bless him, he tries, but the man has two left feet.’



‘Give him a break. The poor bloke is in his late seventies!’



‘I’m no spring chicken, but I can still bump and grind with the best of ’em.’



My brow wrinkles. ‘Bump and what?’



Her legs bend until she’s squatting a little, and then she starts thrusting her old h*ps forward. ‘Bump,’ she says, before changing direction and swivelling her h*ps around, ‘and grind.’



‘Nan!’ I laugh, watching as she alternates between thrusting and swivelling. She looks crafty as she increases her pace, leaving me in a helpless fit of giggles on the couch, holding my aching stomach. ‘Stop it!’



‘I might audition for Beyoncé’s next music video. Think I’ll rock it?’ She winks and takes a seat next to me, wrapping me in her arms. I get my laughter under control and sigh into her bosom, embracing her tight clinch. ‘Nothing gives me greater pleasure than seeing those beautiful eyes sparkle when you laugh, my darling girl.’



My amusement subsides and appreciation takes over – appreciation for this wonderful old woman who I’m so lucky to call my grandmother. She’s worked tirelessly to fill the gaping hole that my mother left and has succeeded to a certain extent. And now she’s adopting the same tactic for the absence of another person in my life. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.



‘For what?’



I shrug a little. ‘Just for being you.’



‘A nosy old bat?’



‘I never mean it when I say that.’



‘Yes, you do.’ She laughs and pulls me from her bust, cupping my cheeks in her wrinkled hands and smothering me with her marshmallow lips. ‘My beautiful, beautiful girl. Dig deep to find that sass, Olivia. Not too much, but just a little. It’ll serve you well.’



My lips tip. She means not as much as my mother.



‘Darling girl, take life by the balls and twist them.’



I laugh, and she laughs, too, falling back on the sofa and taking me with her. ‘I’ll try.’



‘And while you’re at it, twist the balls of any arseholes you encounter, too.’ She hasn’t said it directly, but I know who she’s talking about. Who else?



The house phone rings, pulling us both up.



‘I’ll get it,’ I say, giving Nan a quick kiss on the cheek and heading into the hall, where the cordless device sits in its cradle on the old-fashioned telephone table. In a sad fit of excitement, my eyes light up when I see the bistro’s landline number displayed on the screen, and I hope I know why. ‘Del!’ I greet, all cheery and way too enthusiastic.



‘Hi, Livy.’ His strong cockney accent is a pleasure to hear. ‘I tried your mobile, but it was dead.’



‘Yeah, it’s broken.’ I need to get a new phone pronto, but I’m also quite enjoying the benefit of seclusion that not having one is bringing.



‘Oh good. Now, I know you’re not keen on evenings . . .’



‘I’ll do it!’ I blurt, taking the stairs fast. Distraction, distraction, distraction.



‘Oh?’



‘You want me to waitress?’ I fall into the bathroom, sadly excited at the thought of a perfect opportunity to escape the risk of falling back into mental torment, now that Nan’s antics have expired for the day.



‘Yes, at the Pavilion. Damn agency workers are so unreliable.’



‘No prob—’ I halt mid-sentence and fall against the bathroom door, suddenly thinking of something that could blow my plan of distraction out of the water. ‘Can I ask what the occasion is?’



I can see Del frown in my mind’s eye. ‘Uh, yeah, annual gala for a bunch of judges and barristers.’



My whole being relaxes. Miller is not a judge, nor is he a barrister. I’m safe.



‘Should I wear black?’ I ask.



‘Yes.’ He sounds confused. ‘Seven o’clock start.’



‘Great. I’ll see you there.’ I hang up and throw myself in the shower.



I hurry into the staff entrance of the Pavilion and immediately find Del and Sylvie pouring champagne. ‘I’m here!’ I shrug off my denim jacket and ditch my satchel. ‘What should I do?’



Del smiles, then looks to Sylvie, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them at my unusual cheery mood. ‘Finish pouring, you sweet thing,’ he says, handing me a bottle and leaving me with Sylvie to finish up.



‘You okay?’ I ask Sylvie, commencing pouring duties.



Her black bob sways as she shakes her head on a smile. ‘You look . . . chirpy.’



I swiftly brush off her observation, refusing to let the smile fall from my face. ‘Life goes on,’ I say quickly before going for subject change. ‘How many posh people have we got to feed and water this evening?’



‘About three hundred. The reception is from eight until nine before they’ll all be pushed into the ballroom for dinner. We’ll pick up again at tennish when they’re done and the band starts.’ She places the empty bottle of champagne down. ‘Done. Let’s go.’



Despite my enthusiasm to distract myself with work, I don’t feel comfortable this evening. I’m gliding through the crowds, delivering canapés and champagne, but I feel uneasy. I don’t like it.



When the maître d’ announces dinner, the room soon empties, leaving hundreds of cocktail napkins all over the posh marble floor. They might be people of the legal world, but they’ve littered this stunning room terribly. I rid myself of my tray and start making my way around the room, scooping up the rubbish and stuffing it into a black sack, even finding the remnants of canapés as I go.



‘You okay there, Livy?’ Del calls across the room.



‘Sure. They’re a messy bunch,’ I say, tying my full sack. ‘Do you mind if I use the toilets?’



He laughs, shaking his head. ‘What would you do if I said no?’



The question throws me. ‘Are you going to say no?’



‘God love you. Go to the bloody toilet, woman!’ My boss disappears back into the kitchen, leaving me to find the ladies’.



I take some stairs, following the signs, until I’m wandering down a long stretch of corridor, admiring the paintings flanking either side of me. They are all of historical kings and queens, the earliest being Henry VIII. I stop and take in the portly, bearded man in his later years, wondering, stupidly, what would possess a woman to venture there.



‘He’s not Miller Hart, is he?’



I swing around, coming face to face with Miller’s ‘business associate’. Cassie. What the hell is she doing here? She’s gazing at the picture thoughtfully, arms crossed over the bustier of a stunning silver gown, her glossy black hair tumbling over her shoulders.



‘And he may have been a busy boy in the bedroom, but not as busy as Miller.’ Her sly, hurtful words are like pins shoved viciously into the centre of my heart. ‘Is he as good as everyone claims?’ She turns her cocky expression to me, giving me the once-over with eyes full of satisfaction. I crumble a little, yet find a hidden strength to conceal it.



‘That depends on how good everyone claims he is,’ I retort, meeting her stare and matching her confidence. Her question quickly tells me that she’s asking because she doesn’t know herself, and that satisfies me too much.

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