May 2014

MARK

"It's not a big deal." Ed wanders over to the window and peers out at the view. "This room is great."

He says it with the nonchalance of someone who wasn't a victim of a crowd swarm last night. In his eyes, the incident represents his success. Hundreds of girls fighting to get close to him. To touch him. For us, it's a logistical nightmare and raises all kinds of security concerns.

With his usual home now public knowledge, I made the call to divert us here for a few nights. Unfortunately, it seems one of the best hotels in London isn't able to accommodate a simple request. On a Tuesday night no less.

"This room is not what we asked for," I say to the concierge. "We needed a floor."

"I'm afraid I'm not involved in room allocation," the elderly man replies. "Would you like to talk to our Operations Manager?"

"No." I shove my hands in my pockets. "I'd like to talk to the General Manager."

"I'm not sure he's in today, but let me find out who's in charge and I'll send them up."

With a tip of his hat, he scurries out of the room, no doubt to warn the GM that there's a pissed customer and he needs to stay in hiding.

"Honestly, Mark." Ed turns to face me. "We'll be fine. Nobody followed us."

"We don't know who else is on this floor," I try to explain for the fiftieth time.

"Yeah, well, I like it in here."

Of course he does. He's developing a taste for the finer things in life. Money's leaving his bank account as quickly as it's going in. Fortunately he has enough of it—and all because of these crazy fans. No wonder he loves them so much.

On the maddening chance that the hotel can't fix this mess, I start discussing strategy with Jeremy. He makes a good Second, and it's times like these that I realise how thankful I am to be Team Leader. Des would've let the chips fall. He was reactive, not proactive. Crowds would continue to swarm Ed, and Des wouldn't do anything to prevent that because his thought process was entirely one-dimensional.

It's all part of being a celebrity, he'd said to me on more than one occasion, like I was a clueless kid who didn't know how the world worked. He didn't like being challenged, and I didn't like not being taken seriously. Each time it happened, I built up a case with Helen. I explained that it kept happening because Des was letting it. We couldn't operate as a single team anymore. We needed an inner cordon of officers and outer cordon. We needed an advance party and a residential team. If Ed's success continued to grow, our current model wouldn't be sustainable.

Then Ed had a panic attack before going on stage one night, and Des didn't know what the fuck to do.

He was gone the next day.

With Jeremy studying the fire escape floor plan to get a feel for what we're working with, I stride back over to Ed. He's leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window, scrolling through his phone. Probably doing his hourly check of Twitter followers.

"Just don't do anything stupid like a tweet a picture of the view," I say to him. "We don't need a pack of Sherlock Holmes wannabees tracking us down."

"Give me some credit, man. I do occasionally listen to the lectures you give me."

Smiling, I clap his shoulder and squeeze. "I know, Tapper. Just doing my job."

"Boss," Jeremy says from behind me. "The hotel manager's here to see you."

Finally. What took them so fucking—?

Thoughts drain from my head when I turn and meet a set of familiar eyes. My heart stalls, then restarts at double speed. No. There is absolutely no chance—

"Not the manager. Head of Department. But I'm here to help." Zoe sticks out a hand towards me.

I stare at her outstretched palm. Her words repeat in my head, her husky voice confident and cool. Not light and bouncy like it used to be. But her body is identical. Tiny frame. Long legs. The only difference is her hair, and yet even that is familiar. Straight and blonde, brushing the tops of her silk shoulders.

"Great to meet you." Ed brushes past me and clasps her hand. "This room is amazing. I can't get over the view."

Rage simmers through me as I look at their connected hands. His skin on hers. The dazed expression on her face as she takes him in—the same expression every damn woman has when they meet Teddy Stone.

"Great to meet you, too!" The bounce returns, and the fact he's been the one to extract it from her only adds to my irritation. "If there's anything we can do for you—"

"There is," I interrupt. I'm not shaking her hand. I won't be able to hold it together if I touch her, and I can't fall apart in front of my team. "We specifically requested a whole floor. That was made very clear when I spoke to your bookings team yesterday, and they confirmed it wouldn't be a problem."

"I'm afraid they were mistaken." She turns her eyes back onto me, and the excited glint has disappeared. "That's why I upgraded you to this suite. The square footage means there are fewer rooms on this floor. We only have two others occupied currently, and I've blocked off the rest."

She's calm and direct. Professional. Almost detached. Deep inside me, an odd sensation of warmth spreads. I can't ignore the irony. The fact we'd rehearsed a similar conflict six years ago and now it's happening for real. But if I think too much about it, it will open the floodgates and the memories will steal my composure.

Not that she seems at all bothered by us meeting again. There's no spark of recognition in her eyes.

"You can't move anyone around?" I ask.

Ten minutes ago I was furious, ready to give someone a verbal lashing over this fuck-up. For her, I'm already rolling over. Unable to argue. Unwilling to do so when we have an audience. All I can think about is the bad day at her grad scheme when she froze during an exercise and sobbed about it for hours. Unlikely that will happen now with several years' experience under her belt, but I can't take the chance, because there remains an instinctive part of my soul that still wants to protect her.

"Sorry." She offers me a polite smile. "We're almost fully booked. We have nearly thirty rooms per floor, and there just isn't enough capacity to relocate all of them elsewhere."

I clear my throat in the hope it will clear the fog in my brain too. "The two other rooms on this floor. Can you relocate those guests elsewhere?"

"No, I can't."

Can't or won't? I appreciate she probably doesn't want to inconvenience her highest-paying customers, but it doesn't solve my problem.

"Can you reprogram the lift sensor so that only their cards and ours will allow access up here? Just in case any other guests find out Teddy Stone is up here. We're currently dealing with a sensitive situation which requires discretion."

"I can do that." Zoe reaches into her breast pocket and plucks out a card. "Here's my direct number. If there's anything I can do for you, or if you have any issues at all, please don't hesitate to call me. I'm here until eleven tonight."

My eyes flick down to the card. I don't need her fucking business details. I have her personal mobile number. And if she thinks she's leaving this hotel tonight without receiving a call from me, she's heavily mistaken.

"Thanks so much." Ed reaches for the card with his signature charming grin, and I swiftly snatch the cardboard rectangle from Zoe's outstretched fingers before he can get his slutty hands on it.

Hell will freeze over before I let him have a direct line to Zoe.

Her professional smile wavers, and her fingers curl into a fist before dropping to her side. I track the movement, and it's only then that I notice.

She's not wearing a ring.

*

Normally I hate my breaks. An hour away from Ed is an hour in which something could go wrong. But I'm the one who introduced them, knowing that a refreshed officer is a more effective one, so I have to set an example.

Plus I haven't stopped thinking about Zoe. I'm not going to be able to work effectively until I talk to her. Privately.

Her business card has her office door number on there, which saves me the call. I catch the lift down to the ground floor, straightening my tie in the mirrored walls as I do so.

I stalk the ground floor corridors until I find her office. She might not even be in here. It's around dinner time—she might be eating somewhere. I knock twice, firm and loud.

"Yeah!" she calls.

My fingers circle the metal handle, and I push open the door. She's sitting behind a desk, brow furrowed as she stares at her computer screen.

"Hey, Will," she murmurs, "can you check on the guests in room—?"

She looks up and the words die away on her plump lips. For the first time, she reacts to me. A widening of her eyes. A flush to her cheeks. This time I'm the one in control, and she's the one caught off-guard.

Reaching behind me, I push the door shut. The loud clunk echoes through the silent office. Thick tension clogs the air between us. There's no pretending now. It's just us. Alone. For the first time in three years.

"Zoe," I say, my voice low. "Nice to see you again."

She's frozen in her chair, but while her body doesn't move, her eyes are working over-time. They roam over my face, my shoulders, my tie... Every inch of my body she examines heats up with anticipation. But she gives nothing away. There's no glimmer of appreciation in her appraisal. It's almost clinical.

"Mark," she eventually says, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms.

"Oh." I cock an eyebrow. "You do recognise me."

She ignores my attempt at pettiness. "Everything okay with the suite?"

"You know that's not why I'm here."

Sighing, like I'm a fucking inconvenience, she picks up the phone and hits a number. For a terrifying second, I fret that she's about to kick me out.

"Will," she says down the receiver. "Something's come up. Can you give me an hour?"

Good job my break is only an hour long, otherwise I'd be pissed that she's assigning an end time to this conversation.

"Who's Will?" I ask when she puts down the phone.

She rises from her chair and breezes past me. A waft of coconut lingers in the air when she passes. The click of the lock prickles the hairs on the back of my neck.

"My Operations Manager," she says. "I thought you were him. He was on his way down here."

Rather than go back to her chair, she perches on the front of her desk, just feet away from me. The hem of her black skirt rides up her legs, exposing toned thigh, leading down to slender calves and tiny feet. Everything is black. From the silk shirt to the pointy stilettos. Not a trace of pink.

Is it under her clothes? Heat stirs in my groin. No. Can't think about that.

"You thought I was him," I say. "Do we look similar?"

She shrugs, unaffected. "Not really. I just wasn't paying attention when you walked in."

"Are you paying attention now?" I slide my hands into my pockets, and her eyes drift down to my crotch.

Her indifference is infuriating when she replies, "Hard not to. You're standing right in front of me."

When I take a step closer, she narrows her eyes. But her knuckles whiten around the edge of the desk, and a faint hint of pink creeps up her neck.

"You're not wearing a ring." I don't know what possesses me to say it. Maybe the fact she's trying to pretend she's unbothered by me.

"Richard and I broke up."

"When?"

"A few years ago."

I try to do the maths in my head, but my brain is too occupied by her body. Her smell. Her shallow breaths filling the silent room.

"What happened?" I try to soften my tone so it sounds like I care.

To a certain extent, I do care; if she liked him enough to marry him, she was probably hurt by the break-up. But I mostly care about the fact she's single again.

"His ex-boyfriend came back from Australia." She lets go of the desk and folds her arms. It's an invisible barrier between us, and one I choose to ignore as I take another step closer.

Her bare knees graze my suit trousers. I'm so close now that I can feel the heat rolling off her body. I can see the sparkle of red lipstick glittering across her mouth.

And then her words register.

"Ex-boyfriend?" I ask.

"It's a long story."

Suddenly I want to know. Not because I'll enjoy hearing about the end of her relationship, but because I need to know everything I've missed in the last three years. What's happened in her life. How it happened. How she feels. Whether she thought about me as much as I thought about her.

Every. Fucking. Day.

"Have a drink with me later," I say.

A sharp huff of air bursts from between her scarlet lips. She shakes her head. "Your manners haven't improved over the last three years."

Irritation crawls over my skin. Either she genuinely has no interest in catching up with me, or she's playing hard to get. There's a new self-assuredness about her. A sensual confidence. Whatever she's gone through over the past few years, it's changed her.

But apparently, I haven't changed—not in her eyes.

I gave her up once before. I'm not doing it again. If she wants to drive me away, she'll have to try harder.

"Will you please have a drink with me later?" I try again, hoping it doesn't sound as begrudging as it tastes.

She slides off the desk, her body colliding with mine. Soft curves melt through the fabric of my suit. It's all I can do to keep a straight face and my hands to myself. She's so fucking tempting. Every damn inch of her.

She pinches the end of my tie between her thumb and forefinger and gives it a playful tug.

"You asking me on a date?" Amusement dances through her eyes as she gazes up at me.

It dawns on me that she's probably teasing. Messing with me. Just like I tried to get a reaction from her, she's trying to get one from me. It's a battle. Both of us with a guard up that the other is trying to penetrate. Little does she know, I'd let mine down in an instant if I believed she wouldn't charge in, steal my heart, and run off again.

While my brain understands the rules, other parts of me aren't co-operating. She's right up in my space, after three years apart, and my dick is swelling with anticipation.

When she tilts her body into mine, I clench my jaw. She'll be able to feel how hard I am for her. My erection is digging into her hip. It gives her an advantage over me, so defensiveness is all I have left.

"I'm asking you to get a drink with me. Three times now," I grit out.

Her touch drifts from my tie to my belt, and then she sidesteps around me and puts distance between us again. Cold loss replaces the warmth of her body, but I use the opportunity to quickly adjust myself before turning to face her.

"I get off at eleven," she says, the cool indifference back in her voice. "I'll be in room 215. I can't get a drink with you at the bar where my colleagues will see. It's unprofessional."

"What's room 215?" I ask.

"That's where I stay when I work late so I don't have to travel home in the middle of the night."

I'm glad she's taking precautions like that. It's not healthy to sleep where she works, but I'm hardly a good role model in that respect.

"Okay," I say. "See you at eleven."

***

Thank you for reading :) xx

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