Hate to Love You(60)

I’d just taken a bite of chocolate éclair when I caught a whiff of musky cologne. I chewed, not really tasting it, conscious of James behind me and of people looking at us while they pretended not to.

“You’re still as frank as I remember,” James said.

He didn’t sound disgusted, but nonetheless I was on the defensive. “I am what I am. No point in pretending otherwise.”

“You never did pretend to be anything else—only someone else.”

Ouch.

I couldn’t defend myself for impersonating Caroline. After all, there was no excuse for what I had done. But James’s expression was more probing than accusatory, his tone more questioning than angry, as if he wanted answers about that night.

I bowed my head. “I was drunk and I fell asleep,” I said softly. “You were... persuasive and I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Silence, and then, “I don’t think either one of us did much thinking.”

Was that regret in his voice or had I downed the champagne and not realised it? Nope, the glass was full and where I’d left it next to the blinis. Skin tingling with heat, I glanced around the room.

“You should circulate, Scott-Thomas. ‘Trash at the Bash’ has a large fan base and we’re attracting attention.”

James shrugged. “‘Rash at the Bash’ was much worse. Disgusting, really.”

Stupefied, I stuffed the other half of éclair into my mouth and chewed. Then I chewed some more. James watched me and I got the sense he wouldn’t say anything else until I’d swallowed the damn thing and responded. Did he think I enjoyed the craze my speech had created?

“I hate those videos.”

He smiled faintly. “Only ‘vicious, voyeuristic people’ would stoop to watch them.”

The self-mocking tone to his voice roused my suspicions.

“Tell me you haven’t seen ‘Trash at the Bash—A Waiter’s Perspective,’” I said, narrowing my eyes.

It showed footage of me spilling red wine on my chest before my speech and zoomed in, focusing on the wet nipple poking underneath the thin, white linen.

James pursed his lips then took a sip of champagne, and I groaned. “‘Smash at the Bash’ has more hits these days, or so my Cambridge friends tell me,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. “Did you see ‘Cash at the Bash’?”

The main protagonist was an eighty-year-old millionaire in Scotland who assembled his nearest and dearest for a pre-death reading of his will at his birthday party, only to tell them he’s leaving everything to his cats. I’d thought it was hilarious.#p#分页标题#e#

“My personal favourite,” James said, a wry note in his voice. “Even if I didn’t get to be the one who set up the trust. It might be fun to advise on one of those.”

I laughed, drawing more avid looks. People were discreet, granted, but they were devouring us like wolves. Briefly, I thought about broaching the subject of Ryan before James walked off, but somehow it didn’t seem right to pounce on him with my demands; it didn’t seem...proper.

“Have a nice weekend,” I said, stepping away.

“Stay.”

I never thought I’d answer to a dog command but there I was, frozen in place by one simple word.

“I thought you had joined forces with Greg,” James said. “All of our other secretaries have told me of his machinations but you didn’t.”

“Not because I agreed to help him,” I assured him. “The man’s a scumbag, but you hate me so much I didn’t think you’d believe me if I told you about him.”

He picked up a blini and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. “I don’t hate you.”

“Say again?”

Unlike Greg, James wasn’t into repeating himself. “It’s time Greg realises he can’t manipulate our secretaries for his own pleasure.”

“We could dance,” I said impulsively.

A look of panic flashed across his face. “Mrs Lemane asked me to dance a few years ago. After that a clause was added to my contract stipulating I must never dance at a Flintfire function. My prowess makes other employees feel inadequate.”

“Chicken, James?”

He held my arm, ushering me to the dance floor. Our skin sparked on contact but he didn’t let go. “Just remember that I warned you.”

The song playing was “California Dreaming” and the cover band’s interpretation had a beat easy to dance to—or so I thought. James circled my upper back with his right arm as if preparing for a ballroom waltz. He stood stiffly, his back ramrod straight as he took my right hand. A few couples saw us and moved hastily away. I soon found out why.