The Playboy's Ruthless Pursuit. Miranda LeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
for which Jeremy could be relied upon it was to show up at social functions, properly attired. He loved fashion, and took pride in his appearance. His wardrobe held a wide array of clothes from casual to formal. His dinner suits were the best money could buy, the one he’d worn to Sergio’s wedding made by one of the top tailors in Milan. He’d wear that one tonight.
When she started thanking him again, he cut her short by asking when and where they could meet up tonight. Once he had the details in hand, he said goodbye, hung up then called out to Madge.
She popped her head through the door straight away.
‘Everything settled?’ she asked.
‘Fine. Just tell me one thing. Have you actually met this Alice?’
‘No. I only talked to her over the phone.’
‘So what PR company does she work for?’
Madge looked puzzled. ‘She doesn’t. I mean...didn’t I tell you? She works as a counsellor at a couple of the women’s refuges.’
‘No, Madge, you didn’t mention that.’
‘Sorry. Bit flustered today. Anyway, Alice explained when she first rang that they couldn’t afford the fees of professional fund-raisers so she was doing it all herself. Not an easy job, I can assure you.’
‘No,’ Jeremy said thoughtfully. Damn, but he hated it when he was wrong about someone. He supposed it wasn’t impossible that the daughters of wealthy men could be born with social consciences, plus the desire to make a difference to those less fortunate than themselves. But in his experience, it was rare.
Jeremy was impressed, and resolved to do everything in his power to make tonight’s auction a success.
‘I’d better get back to work,’ he said, but his mind remained elsewhere. He was definitely looking forward to finding out tonight all about the enigmatic and intriguing Alice Waterhouse.
‘THANK YOU FOR lending me this lovely cocktail dress, Fiona,’ Alice said as she inspected herself in the cheval mirror. The dress was black and sleek and strapless, with a matching coat that would protect her from the chill night air till she could get inside the air-conditioned hotel. Despite summer being just over a month away, London was in the grip of a cold snap.
‘My pleasure,’ her flatmate replied, the words reminding Alice of the conversation she’d had earlier today with Kenneth Jacobs’s publisher. What a nice man he was. And what a lovely voice. He would make a much better auctioneer than Mr Jacobs.
‘I seriously wish I was going to your do tonight instead of having dinner with Alistair’s parents,’ Fiona added. ‘But it’s his mother’s birthday...’ Her voice trailed off as she shrugged resignedly. ‘Never a good idea to get on the wrong foot with one’s future mother-in-law.’
‘I would imagine not,’ Alice agreed, glad that she’d never have to worry about such matters. No way was she ever going to get married.
‘You look lovely,’ Fiona said. ‘I wish I had your figure. And your height. And your hair.’
Alice was taken aback by the compliments, thinking there wasn’t anything special about her figure, though she did have nice hair, naturally blonde and easy to style. As for her height, she wasn’t that tall. Just under five eight. Admittedly, Fiona was on the short side. Despite that, she was a strikingly attractive girl with thick dark hair, big brown eyes and the kind of voluptuous body that men lusted after. Not that Alice wanted to be lusted after. It was the last thing she wanted.
‘That dress looks much better on you than it did on me,’ Fiona went on. ‘When I wore it, my boobs spilled out over the top. I had men gawking at them all night. Alistair said I was never to wear it again, so if you want it, sweetie, it’s yours.’
Alice hated the way Fiona called her sweetie, as if she were a kid when in fact they were both the same age. She also didn’t want to be treated as if she were still the girl who’d first come to London and shown up, broke, on the doorstep. Still, it was an understandable hangover from when Alice had first come to London and shown up, broke, on the doorstep of Fiona’s flat, mainly because she was the closest thing to a friend that Alice had ever had at boarding school. Not that they moved in the same circles, but they did share crushes on the same movie stars. Alice had only known Fiona’s address because Fiona had told everyone at school when her billionaire father had presented her with the keys of a Kensington flat for her eighteenth birthday.
To give Fiona credit, she’d taken Alice in and let her have a room, rent-free, till Alice had been able to earn some money. Then, when Alice had said she would be moving out a few weeks later, Fiona had begged her to stay, saying she enjoyed her company. Over the seven years they’d lived together, they’d become quite close, sharing confidences the way girls did. Fiona understood why Alice was anti-men, but she still hadn’t given up hope that one day Alice would meet a man she could trust—and love.
‘Did I tell you that Kenneth Jacobs pulled out of doing the auctioneer job at the last minute?’ Alice said as Fiona sprayed her with perfume. ‘He came down with a head cold.’
‘Oh, no!’ Fiona exclaimed. ‘What did you do?’
‘I panicked at first.’
Fiona laughed. ‘You? Panic? Never! You would have sorted something out.’
Fiona’s blind faith in her organisational skills amused Alice. Still, anyone would seem cool, calm and collected in comparison with Fiona, who could be quite scatter-brained. And very messy. It crossed Alice’s mind that Fiona might have originally asked her to stay because she did most of the housework.
‘I was lucky. Kenneth put me onto this lovely lady at Barker Books and before I knew it, the owner of the company rang me back and offered to take Mr Jacobs’s place.’
‘That was lucky.’
‘You’ve no idea how lucky. He has this absolutely gorgeous voice. He’s going to make a great auctioneer. Now no more of that perfume, Fiona. I have to get my things together. The cab I ordered will be here any second. I’ve made arrangements to meet Mr Barker-Whittle in the foyer of the hotel at seven.’
‘What?’
‘I said I—’
‘I know what you said,’ Fiona broke in sharply. ‘I hope we’re not talking about Jeremy Barker-Whittle here.’
Alice frowned. ‘Yes. That’s how he introduced himself. Why? What’s the matter with him?’
‘He’s just one of the most infamous playboys in London—that’s what’s the matter with him. Handsome as the devil, with more charm than any man has a right to. My sister dated him once for about five minutes, and she hasn’t stopped raving about him ever since. She claims that after being with Jeremy no other man could possibly compare. Lord, but I’d never have lent you that sexy dress if I knew who you’d be sitting next to tonight.’
Whilst momentarily thrown by this news, Alice also felt peeved that Fiona would think for a moment she would fall victim to some playboy’s dubious charms. Surely she knew her better than that. Now that she’d been warned about Mr Barker-Whittle, he had not a hope in Hades of snaring her interest, no matter how handsome and charming he was. And he was charming, she conceded, thinking of how much she’d liked him over the phone. And yes, he was a right royal devil, calling himself a crusty old bachelor like that!
‘Forewarned is forearmed, Fiona,’ she pointed out. ‘Now that I know he’s a player, I will be on guard against any attempt by him to seduce me. Though you, of all people, should know I am immune to men of his type.’
Even as she said the words, Alice knew she was lying. She’d always found handsome devils attractive. In the movies mostly, but also in real life. There was something wickedly