Naked Truths (22 page)

‘Just keep on plugging away,' Catherine urged Annabel and Saffron. The former had looked singularly unimpressed at the suggestion, and Catherine had felt a surge of irritation, both at herself and her features editor. How had she let such a lazy, unmotivated woman on to her team? Afterwards, she had taken Annabel into her office and given her short shrift.

‘You may think it's a waste of time still going after Savannah Sexton, but I don't,' she'd told her. ‘So I'd appreciate it if you showed a little more willingness and enthusiasm.'
Like Saffron, the person you are meant to manage and inspire
, she'd wanted to add, but she'd held her tongue.

‘Yes, Catherine,' Annabel had replied sulkily, before returning to her desk to get back on Facebook.

Catherine knew she was being snappy, but she couldn't help it. As much as she tried to push it to the back of her mind, her encounter with John Milton had turned her existence upside down. Just the sound of his name had provoked a sort of chemical reaction in her. She was unnerved by just how attracted she had been to him in that brief encounter, but she knew any further contact would be deadly. Catherine couldn't even contemplate her past being dredged up again. There was far too much at stake.

But then again, she couldn't blame everything on John Milton. Catherine wasn't a fool. Even before he had materialized in her life again, she had known she was fighting off memories that refused to be banished, usually by way of a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc or two. She'd always been able to manage it all before, but now it was as if a fast-forward button had been pressed and she was on the slippery slope to God knows what. For Catherine, who had been tightly in control for all of her adult life, it was a terrifying sensation. It was like she had suddenly become a stranger to herself. But then again, who was she, really? Although she knew she shouldn't let Isabella's threat bother her, Catherine had been shaken to the core by it. What if Isabella did actually start digging around for her secrets? Several times, Catherine had woken from the same nightmare, soaking wet with perspiration.

For Christ's sake, you're pathetic
, she found herself thinking one evening, as she stood looking out across the London skyline, glass of wine in one hand.
How have you let yourself get like this?
The glass suddenly slipped out of her hand and smashed on the wooden floor.

‘Shit!' cursed Catherine. Swaying slightly, she went to get a tea towel from the kitchen.

The next day, slightly fuzzy-headed, Catherine was editing a six-page special on
Soirée
Sponsors to go in the Christmas issue. She had decided it was perfect timing. The charity had just been put up for another award, and media interest was at an all-time high. As well as photographing some of the scheme's success stories in a glamorous,
Vanity Fair
-type photo shoot, Gail had also agreed to a photograph and interview about her work.

‘As long as you don't put me in a poncy dress,' she'd told Catherine. Catherine had laughed out loud. ‘As if we'd dare!'

There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,' called Catherine.

Harriet peered round at her. ‘There's a John Milton to see you.'

Catherine's face turned ashen. ‘Here, now?'

‘Er, yes,' Harriet replied. ‘Reception called. Shall I send him up?'

Catherine deliberated wildly for a second, and then decided the private confines of her office would be far better for a meeting with John Milton than anywhere near the two gossipy Valour receptionists.

‘Yes, do that,' she told Harriet. ‘Can you meet him by the lift and bring him through?'

Catherine quickly opened her drawer and got out a small hand mirror. She looked OK, a bit tired, but she quickly ran a brush through her hair and applied a coat of lip-gloss. Immediately annoyed at herself for making the effort, Catherine shoved the mirror back in the drawer. Her stomach had shrunk into a ball of nerves.

A minute later, there was another knock. ‘John Milton,' Harriet announced.

Catherine got up to welcome him, but not before noticing every female in the office was staring at this tall, dark, handsome stranger. Across the room Alexander raised an impressed eyebrow at her. Catherine ignored him as she shut the door.

She stood awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do.

‘Please, take a seat,' she told him.

John folded his long body comfortably into the chair opposite Catherine's. He looked like a different person from the one she'd encountered the night of the
Soirée
party. The paint-splattered jeans had been replaced by smart navy ones, and he was wearing a well-cut double-breasted wool coat. It looked like Armani, thought Catherine, as she went round to her side of the desk. Why did that surprise her?

‘Sorry about turning up like this, I hope it's not a problem.' Charisma and self-assurance radiated off him.

‘I was just doing a bit of work,' she said stiffly.

John smiled. ‘Well, quite. This is your office.' There was that slightly playful tone again . . . ‘Anyway, I'll cut to the chase,' he continued. ‘I know you're very busy, but I'd still like to take you for dinner. How about tomorrow?'

Catherine felt a stab of relief. ‘I have a work function.' At least that wasn't a lie: she was hosting a dinner at an exclusive members' club for existing businesses involved with
Soirée
Sponsors.

‘Thursday?'

She scrabbled desperately for an excuse. ‘It's just very short notice . . .'

John Milton stood up decisively. ‘I'll take that as a yes, then. Do you know Duvall's?'

‘Yes, it's meant to be excellent,' she replied in astonishment. Duvall's was a very expensive French restaurant just off Piccadilly. It had only opened recently, but the chef was something of a legend, and already it was nigh on impossible to get a table.

John grinned down at her. ‘I can get us a table for eight thirty. Shall we meet in the bar for a drink before?' This time, Catherine had no excuses.

A moment after John had left, Alexander bounded in. ‘Ooh! Wasn't he that divine fellow from the party?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' Catherine said, shuffling a pile of papers on her desk.

‘Rubbish! He's that Clive Owen look-alike I saw you talking to! Did he come in to ask you out?'

‘No!' It came out as a shout, and Alexander looked rather taken aback.

‘Sorry, darling, I didn't mean anything by it.'

Catherine tried to compose herself. ‘Haven't you got any work to do?'

CATHERINE WAS ON
edge. Her meeting – she refused to think of it as a date – with John was in thirty-one minutes. Everyone had left for the day, and the office was empty as she stood in front of the fashion cupboard's full-length mirror. Deciding what to wear had been tricky. She hadn't wanted to go over the top and give him the wrong impression. After much more deliberation than she'd originally intended, Catherine had chosen her new black Joseph trousers, mid-height Kurt Geiger heels, and a silk jersey vest from Calvin Klein. A delicate wristwatch, stud earrings and an Anya Hindmarch clutch bag provided the only accessories. She gave herself a final once-over and, satisfied, gathered up her things to leave the office.

She still wasn't sure why she was going. After all, it wasn't as if she could start a relationship with John Milton. Getting close to someone messed you up and made you vulnerable, two emotions she had no intention of ever feeling again. As she got out of the cab outside the restaurant, Catherine was tempted for a moment to jump back in and drive away.
It's not too late to change your mind
, she thought, but by then the doorman had pulled open the door to welcome her in.

She found herself in a small, intimate bar with dark panelled walls and a low ceiling. It reminded Catherine of a gentlemen's drinking club, the masculinity softened by the exquisite watercolours hanging on the wall and the huge vase of white lilies on the desk at reception. In the far corner, a small, neat man in a dinner jacket played elegantly on a grand piano. Almost immediately a waiter appeared from nowhere and helped her out of her belted cashmere Burberry trench coat. John was already out of his seat, taking long strides towards her.

‘You look great,' he told her. The waiter bowed politely and melted away. Putting his hand on her bare arm, John guided her back to the table. Catherine found her heart leaping at his touch. She forced herself to look at him. He was freshly shaved, and his hair looked as if it had been cut since she last saw him. He was wearing a well-cut dark-grey suit with a black shirt underneath. They both looked like Gucci. As he went to pull her chair out, Catherine noticed he was wearing a Tag watch they had featured in a fashion shoot a few months ago. She recalled it had cost over three thousand pounds. Builders were obviously doing pretty well for themselves these days, she thought, at the same time registering that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

A glass of beer stood barely touched on the table. ‘What can I get you?' he asked.

Catherine studied the wine list and made her choice. Another waiter materialized to take the order.

John took a sip of his drink. ‘How's work?'

‘God, don't ask,' Catherine said. She changed the subject. ‘How's yours?'

John shrugged. ‘Busy. We've just taken on this new contract. We're working all hours, getting as much as we can done before the bad weather sets in.'

‘Oh,' Catherine said. She hoped he didn't expect her to hold a conversation about spirit levels.

Another silence, but John didn't seem bothered by it. Catherine looked desperately around for her drink. To her relief, the waiter was making his way over, a glass of white wine held aloft on his tray. He set it down on the table and Catherine immediately took a sip, the familiar silky liquid travelling down her throat and spreading through her like a comfort blanket.

She looked at her watch. It was nearly eight thirty. ‘Shall we go through?'

John stood up. ‘After you.' He kept a respectful distance behind, but Catherine still imagined she could feel the heat from his body.

The lights in the restaurant were turned down low, casting a soft glow on the starched white tablecloths. Diners sat close together deep in conversation, occasionally laughing in low voices. The food looked delectable. John Milton certainly knew his restaurants, thought Catherine. She found herself again surprised at his choice, but then, what had she been expecting? A meal for two at Burger King?

‘I recommend the scallops to start,' he said as the waiter pulled out their chairs.

‘So you've been here before?' she asked.

He grinned. ‘More than I should in the time it's been open. Good food is my weakness.'

Without looking at the list, John ordered a bottle of wine from the waiter. Catherine realized she hadn't had lunch, and the alcohol was heading straight to her head. Once they had ordered their food she tried to be more conversational.

‘So you're a builder?'

‘Yes and no,' he said. ‘I actually own a construction company, and am more involved with the management side of things. I just help out when the guys need an extra hand. To be honest, I really enjoy getting stuck in. Makes me realize why I got into the business in the first place.'

‘What's the name of your company?' Catherine said out of politeness. It wouldn't mean anything: her and John Milton's worlds were poles apart.

‘Castlegate,' he replied. ‘I don't know if you've heard of it.'

Catherine couldn't hide her surprise. ‘Actually, I read something about it in the
Financial Times
. Haven't you been brought in to take over building the Olympic Village?'

The deal had made the national news a few days running. Castlegate was one of the biggest, most respected construction firms in the South East. Their appointment to the beleaguered site on the outskirts of the capital had brought sighs of relief all round.

‘We're not doing the whole project, but yes. Signed the contract a fortnight ago.'

‘Slightly bigger job than the Natural History Museum,' she said.

John chuckled. ‘Just a bit. I prefer working on the older buildings, though. London's got some of the most beautiful architecture in the world.'

Their starters arrived, but Catherine wasn't hungry. Sitting so close to John was making her stomach twist into knots. It wasn't just his physical size: there was a strength about him that just radiated out. In a room where they were surrounded by fat, red-faced bankers, John Milton oozed raw, rugged manliness. Judging by the eyes that kept flickering in his direction, the other female diners had noticed as well.

‘How did you get that scar?' Catherine asked, looking at his eyebrow. John raised his hand and touched it briefly.

‘Rugby. That's where the broken nose came from as well. Luckily I seem to have escaped the cauliflower ears.'

‘You always loved your rugby,' she smiled. It was the first time she had referred to their past. If John was surprised or pleased, he didn't show it.

‘Lived, breathed and ate it. I had trials for Newcastle when I was nineteen, but a right ankle smashed in four places put paid to any dreams of playing professionally.'

Catherine found herself glancing at his shoulders and arms, large and muscular under the fabric of his shirt.

‘You look like you still work out,' she said, then cringed madly. That sounded like the worst kind of chat-up line!

John Milton surveyed her across the table. There was a definite hint of amusement in his eyes. Catherine looked away and feigned interest in a painting on the wall.

‘Aren't you hungry?' he asked. Catherine stared down at her plate, which had barely been touched. ‘I had a late lunch,' she lied.

The waiter came to clear their plates. ‘How long have you been in London?' John asked when they were alone again.