gave him her very best, most adoring smile. But she didn’t correct him.
CHAPTER SIX
A RE YOU SURE you don’t want me to stay a little longer?”
The girl loitering in the doorway of Lucas’s apartment fluttered her eyelashes and gave him the full force of the pouty, wide-eyed look that had made her the hottest model in London this season.
“Because I
really
don’t mind.”
Lucas, wearing only a white towel tied around his waist, marveled again at her incredible body, shown off to perfection in a pair of skinny jeans and a tight white sweater, and felt his resolve fraying at the edges. They’d been screwing all afternoon, but he reckoned he had more than enough energy for a third round if she did.
But no, he shouldn’t. It was the big Christmas party at the Cadogan tonight. Julia was probably already furious that he wasn’t at work right now—bossy, overbearing cow that she was.
“You’re sweet, Georgie,” he said, rubbing a hand against his stubble and realizing belatedly that he needed a shave before tonight as well. “But maybe next time, hey? Tonight’s a big night for me.”
The girl shrugged and kissed him on the cheek. “Your loss, Lucasito,” she said. Flicking her long blonde hair behind her,she skipped off down the stairs, calling out, “Oh, and merry Christmas!” over her shoulder as she disappeared from view.
“Thanks,” sighed Lucas to himself. Walking back into the apartment, he shut the door behind him. “Merry Christmas to you too.”
He’d been in London for five months now, at the Cadogan for four of them, and had already made a considerable splash on the social scene. With his Heathcliff looks and moody confidence added to the intoxicating whiff of his dangerous other-side-of-the-tracks background, he was an immediate hit with all the well-bred Chelsea heiresses, who’d taken to hanging around the hotel like groupies, hoping to get a crack at him. His job at the Cadogan gave him instant access to London’s notoriously exclusive clubland, and to all outward appearances he appeared to have gained overnight acceptance among the city’s bright young things. Night after night he could be seen squiring the most eligible girls to Annabel’s and Tramp, and by day, in the rare hours when he wasn’t working, he was a familiar figure in the West End, tearing around the streets of Soho on his Ducati motorbike like a Spanish James Dean.
But beneath the veneer of glamour, the reality was that he was still only a small step above broke. Anton paid him a fair wage at the Cadogan and partially subsidized his bachelor pad on St. James’s, which was a godsend. But the crowd that Lucas moved in, a mixture of trust-fund brats, city whiz kids, and old-money aristocracy, all had disposable incomes to burn, and he was painfully aware of his own inadequate funds as he tried to keep up. Most of the men in his circle knew that he was struggling and, already jealous of his popularity with the It-girls and models that had swooned over them before Lucas showed up, responded by patronizing him socially. This, naturally, drove Lucas insane with rage, and he nursed his wounded pride like a stuck bull. If they’d openly challenged him, he’d have been able to hit back. But in typically British style, their exclusion ofLucas was far more subtle and insidious than that. So a group of Goldman bankers would happily share a table with him at a restaurant or club, and might even invite him to drinks parties. But when it came to shooting weekends at Blenheim or boys-only ski breaks to Verbier, Lucas only ever heard about it after the fact. Not that he could have afforded to go anyway, but it would have been nice to be asked. In Lausanne, the European rich kids had accepted him without reservation. But British snobbery, he was beginning to discover, was of quite a different order. Outwardly, he pretended not to care about being snubbed. Inside, however, he was more determined than ever to beat the British
CHAPTER SIX
A RE YOU SURE you don’t want me to stay a little longer?”
The girl loitering in the doorway of Lucas’s apartment fluttered her eyelashes and gave him the full force of the pouty, wide-eyed look that had made her the hottest model in London this season.
“Because I
really
don’t mind.”
Lucas, wearing only a white towel tied around his waist, marveled again at her incredible body, shown off to perfection in a pair of skinny jeans and a tight white sweater, and felt his resolve fraying at the edges. They’d been screwing all afternoon, but he reckoned he had more than enough energy for a third round if she did.
But no, he shouldn’t. It was the big Christmas party at the Cadogan tonight. Julia was probably already furious that he wasn’t at work right now—bossy, overbearing cow that she was.
“You’re sweet, Georgie,” he said, rubbing a hand against his stubble and realizing belatedly that he needed a shave before tonight as well. “But maybe next time, hey? Tonight’s a big night for me.”
The girl shrugged and kissed him on the cheek. “Your loss, Lucasito,” she said. Flicking her long blonde hair behind her,she skipped off down the stairs, calling out, “Oh, and merry Christmas!” over her shoulder as she disappeared from view.
“Thanks,” sighed Lucas to himself. Walking back into the apartment, he shut the door behind him. “Merry Christmas to you too.”
He’d been in London for five months now, at the Cadogan for four of them, and had already made a considerable splash on the social scene. With his Heathcliff looks and moody confidence added to the intoxicating whiff of his dangerous other-side-of-the-tracks background, he was an immediate hit with all the well-bred Chelsea heiresses, who’d taken to hanging around the hotel like groupies, hoping to get a crack at him. His job at the Cadogan gave him instant access to London’s notoriously exclusive clubland, and to all outward appearances he appeared to have gained overnight acceptance among the city’s bright young things. Night after night he could be seen squiring the most eligible girls to Annabel’s and Tramp, and by day, in the rare hours when he wasn’t working, he was a familiar figure in the West End, tearing around the streets of Soho on his Ducati motorbike like a Spanish James Dean.
But beneath the veneer of glamour, the reality was that he was still only a small step above broke. Anton paid him a fair wage at the Cadogan and partially subsidized his bachelor pad on St. James’s, which was a godsend. But the crowd that Lucas moved in, a mixture of trust-fund brats, city whiz kids, and old-money aristocracy, all had disposable incomes to burn, and he was painfully aware of his own inadequate funds as he tried to keep up. Most of the men in his circle knew that he was struggling and, already jealous of his popularity with the It-girls and models that had swooned over them before Lucas showed up, responded by patronizing him socially. This, naturally, drove Lucas insane with rage, and he nursed his wounded pride like a stuck bull. If they’d openly challenged him, he’d have been able to hit back. But in typically British style, their exclusion ofLucas was far more subtle and insidious than that. So a group of Goldman bankers would happily share a table with him at a restaurant or club, and might even invite him to drinks parties. But when it came to shooting weekends at Blenheim or boys-only ski breaks to Verbier, Lucas only ever heard about it after the fact. Not that he could have afforded to go anyway, but it would have been nice to be asked. In Lausanne, the European rich kids had accepted him without reservation. But British snobbery, he was beginning to discover, was of quite a different order. Outwardly, he pretended not to care about being snubbed. Inside, however, he was more determined than ever to beat the British
Similar Books
