Beautiful Liar (3 page)

I looked back, and saw that he was frowning at me.

“You're really not going to accept any financial help?” He was looking at me with undisguised disbelief.

“I just want a job.”

He stared at me for a long moment, and I could tell he was debating what to do.

“Before I give you an answer,” he said finally, “I need you to tell me one thing—does your mother know you're here?”

It wasn't quite the response I'd been expecting. “No, she doesn't.” To that day, I had no idea what had happened between them—but I could take a good guess. Knowing my mother, she'd probably asked him for an outrageous sum of money, or else she'd made a pass at him . . . “I didn't think she'd approve.”

I'd hoped he might elaborate—explain what had gone on between them. But instead he said, “Look, Nina, I'll be honest with you. I admire you for coming here today. I think of myself as a good judge of character, and I suspect you're a
conscientious person, like your father. So, as long as you swear to me that your mother won't learn of my involvement in this, then I'm happy to help you.”

I blinked, taken aback. “I don't understand.”

“I'm saying I'll find you a job in my organisation. As long as you swear to me that your mother will learn nothing of this. So can you do that?”

I realised he was waiting for an answer. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Good. Because now I think about it, I seem to remember we're looking for staff at one of our nightclubs—Destination. You've probably heard of it?”

I hadn't—cool London clubs weren't exactly my scene; I had neither the money nor the time to go to them. But that was the least of my problems. Working in a nightclub wasn't ideal. I couldn't imagine it impressing Social Services. I was meant to be proving that I could provide a stable place for my sister to live in—working unsociable hours around alcohol wasn't going to do that.

But I didn't want to seem ungrateful, and it wasn't like I had any other options, so I swallowed down my disappointment. “That sounds great. Thank you.”

“My son, Giles, is the club manager. I'll arrange for you to meet him tomorrow afternoon. He'll keep an eye on you.”

I was a bit confused by that. After his initial hostility, he
was now tasking someone to look out for me. It was quite a turn around.

I might have dwelt on that longer, but right then the phone rang. Duncan looked at the display, and snatched up the receiver.

“Pandora?” So it was the icy blonde PA. “What? He's here now?” His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. “We were meant to be having a breakfast meeting three hours ago.” I couldn't make out Pandora's response, but whatever it was, Duncan rolled his eyes. Whoever was there, he was clearly irritated by them. “Tell him to give me five minutes.”

He slammed the phone down, and then turned his attention back to me.

“Well, I think that's everything.” He stood, and I could tell he wanted me to leave. “Pandora will give you the details for Destination. And as I said, if you need anything else, just ask Giles. He'll look after you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “As I said, I'm happy to help you out. It's the least I can do for Jack Baxter's daughter. But I don't want any trouble, especially from your mother. So all I ask is that you keep her out of this.”

He clearly wasn't looking for a response, so I didn't give him one. We shook hands briefly, and I made my way back towards Pandora's desk. As I approached, I saw that she wasn't alone—in
fact, the ice queen had melted and was instead giggling up at a tall, well-built young man, who was draped across her desk, looking as though he owned the place.

He was maybe in his early twenties, and he had that aristocratic look about him—with chin-length, dishevelled black hair falling across a perfectly symmetrical face. The high cheekbones, straight nose and porcelain skin might have seemed almost effeminate if he hadn't had a spattering of designer stubble across his chiselled jawline, giving a bad-boy roughness to his looks. I wondered who he was. I'd assumed he'd be someone Duncan was interviewing—but if he was there for a job, he didn't seem too bothered about making a good first impression. Not only was he late, but he only seemed interested in chatting up Duncan's PA.

The man said something I couldn't hear, and Pandora giggled again. They were so engrossed in each other that they clearly had no idea I was there, so I had no choice but to noisily clear my throat.

They both looked up. Pandora scrunched up her small nose, clearly irritated at having her flirtation session disturbed. But it was the stranger who drew me up short. For a second, all I could see were his eyes—they were the palest shade of ice-blue I'd ever seen, and watchful and predatory, like a wolf's. There was something almost unnatural about them. He looked me over with what seemed to be cool
disinterest.

“I suppose this means the old man's free.” His voice took me by surprise—I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't that low, upper-class drawl. And what was it with the derogatory way he'd referred to Duncan Noble as “the old man”? The stranger turned back to Pandora, who was getting to her feet. “Don't worry, beautiful. I'll show myself in.”

He stood then, and I could see he was even more physically imposing than I'd realised—at least six foot two, and with a lean, athletic build. But it wasn't just his size that made him stand out. In black fitted trousers, a white pirate shirt and burgundy-velvet jacket, he had that flamboyant look of the Romantic era. He looked even more out of place than me in that corporate environment.

He sauntered over, and as he passed me his ice-blue eyes met mine. There was something in the way he looked at me—an almost penetrating stare that seemed designed to unnerve me. Our gaze held for a second. To my shame, I was the first to look away.

Then he was gone, leaving me alone with a clearly miffed Pandora.

“Well?” she demanded. “What do you need?”

I forced myself back to the present, and tried to forget about those ice-cold blue eyes.

* * *

Half an hour later, I stood outside the gates of my sister's school. It was lunch break, and so the pupils were in the playground. April knew to look out for me. At the hospital, I'd whispered that I'd drop by St. Mary's, so we didn't have to wait for the official visiting times arranged by our social worker, Maggie.

I spotted her easily. She was walking dejectedly, looking tired and pale. I could tell she was fighting the urge to cry.

She ran over to where I was standing. I wanted to hug her, but we had to settle for linking hands through the fence. I quickly asked her how she was getting along—aware that we didn't have much time before she'd need to go in for afternoon classes.

The house she was in wasn't too bad, she told me. The foster parents seemed nice enough, but there were three other kids staying there, and one of the girls looked like she could be trouble. She'd already taken April's lunch money that morning.

I didn't like the sound of that. I told April I'd have a word with Maggie and see what she could suggest. Meanwhile, I searched in my pocket and gave my sister all the money I had on me, and told her to keep it out of view. I also passed her the mobile that I'd managed to rescue from our flat, so we could keep in touch.

April took the cash and phone from me, and hid them away like I'd instructed. But she still didn't look happy.

“I don't want to stay there,” she said.

“I know. Trust me, I'm doing everything I can to get you back.”

From inside the school building, a bell sounded, signalling afternoon classes.

“Oh no.” April's hands tightened on the metal fence that separated us, and she looked up at me in distress. “I don't want to go yet.”

I could tell she was about to cry, so I placed my right hand on hers, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

“I promise this won't be for long. I'm going to do everything I can to make sure we're back together soon.”

She looked up at me with large, hopeful eyes. “All of us? Even Mum?”

It took all my effort to force a smile. “Yeah, Mum too.”

That seemed to reassure her, and she left looking more at ease than before.

I stood and watched until she disappeared inside the school building, aware that I needed to do everything within my power to make this job at Destination work.

The following afternoon, I got off the Tube at Green Park, the closest stop for Destination. Naturally the nightclub was located in Mayfair, one of the most exclusive areas of London. I walked by the Ritz, and crossed the road, heading down Old Bond Street. My route took me by all the expensive boutiques—Tiffany, Louis Vuitton, Jimmy Choo . . . Beautifully coiffed women emerged from the shops, followed by their drivers, who were laden down with bags. What on earth was I doing here?

After my meeting with Duncan Noble, I'd googled Destination, and now I was even more convinced that it wasn't my kind of place. It was a private members' club, aimed at a young, cool and wealthy crowd. Money and good looks seemed like a prerequisite. To me, it sounded pretentious and elitist, two things I hated. But for now I'd have to make the best of it.

I made my way through the maze of elegant streets until I reached Destination. Like most of the Mayfair nightclubs, it was located in the basement of one of the grand townhouses. The beautiful buildings had once been the London residences of the country's richest people, but now they were embassies, five-star hotels and hedge-fund-management offices. From the outside, there was no sign, but I followed the directions to the side entrance, where I'd been told to go.

I pressed the intercom.

“Yes?” a clipped voice said.

I confirmed that I was in the right place, and gave my name and reason for being there. A second later, I was buzzed in.

I walked into a small but modern reception area. A cool blonde sat behind a desk. She could have easily been the long-lost twin of Duncan Noble's PA, Pandora.

“Take a seat. Giles will be out in a minute,” she said, before returning to her screen.

Behind her, there was a glass-door fridge, filled with bottles of Voss. Clearly I wasn't about to be offered anything, so I settled on the low leather couch and waited.

After five minutes, a tall, slim-built man, who I assumed was Giles Noble, appeared. He was good-looking in a clean-cut, preppy way, with short sandy hair and a friendly, open face. He wore classic office smart-casual—chinos and a button-down blue
shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, as though he'd been having a busy day. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren brochure.

“Nina, isn't it?” His cheeks dimpled a little as he smiled at me. “Giles Noble. Why don't you come through?”

I followed him to his office. He sat at his desk, and indicated for me to take the chair opposite. I'd come across a couple of articles about him in my research on the club, and knew that at just twenty-four years old, he was already considered wildly successful. He was a golden boy, the Oxford-educated heir apparent to Noble Enterprises, who had made Destination the premier nightclub in London. It was safe to say his image fitted his CV.

“So, Dad tells me you're looking for work.” He launched straight into the interview without any preamble. “Tell me—what do you know about the club?”

“Not much, to be honest. I read a bit about it online. But . . .” I attempted a smile. “It's not exactly the kind of place I hang out in.”

Giles nodded. “I understand. And that's not a problem. No one expects you to be an expert.”

He launched into a description of the club and what they were trying to achieve. The emphasis, he told me, was on customer service—customers were spending a lot to be there, and they needed everything to be perfect. It was clearly something he felt passionate about, and I couldn't
help being impressed.

“You've waited tables before?” he asked, when he'd finished his spiel.

“Yes.” It was one of the many jobs I'd been sacked from because of having to deal with my mother's ongoing dramas. And that had just been a greasy spoon, nowhere in this league. “But I haven't worked anywhere like this.”

“I wouldn't worry too much about that. I know this place might feel a bit intimidating, but trust me—it's just a club, like any other. You'll be able to handle it.”

“Great . . . Thanks.”

We lapsed into an awkward silence. The formality of the meeting had taken me by surprise. Then, after a moment, Giles took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

When he looked up at me, he seemed less sure of himself. “Look . . .” He started and then stopped. He seemed so uncomfortable—I had no idea what he was about to say. I thought at first that he was trying to break it to me that there was no job there for me, but instead he said, “I just wanted to say that I'm sorry about your father.”

“Oh.” It was the last thing I'd expected him to say. I'd guessed that Duncan Noble would explain who I was, but I didn't think he'd mention my father's death. “Uh, thanks . . . But it was a long time ago, now.”

“Yes, of course.” He shook his head, clearly annoyed with himself. “I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have brought it up. But it's just . . . well,
I remember your father from all those years ago. He was often up at Rexley.”

Hearing that name jolted me. Rexley Manor was the Nobles' country estate in Buckinghamshire. It was also where my father had died. He'd driven Duncan Noble there one evening, and was on his way back to London, when his car hit an icy patch, spun out of control and crashed into a tree on a little country lane near the estate. He'd died on impact.

The memory brought an unexpected rush of emotion. I glanced away, blinking back the tears.