Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 4

“Aren’t you just a big grump tonight?” the blond purrs, her manicured claws scraping my tux like we’re old friends. Her hand settles on my chest, thumb grazing my nipple in a move so brazen, I’d be drowning in lawsuits if I tried that shit.

“This is just how I look,” I say gruffly.

She pouts, those glossy lips glistening like they’re lubed up for action. “But everyone else is having a great time. And here you are, all alone and grumpy at the bar.”

“Long day at the office,” I reply coolly, capturing her wrist before she can continue her handsy exploration. “Not really in the mood for socializing.”

She giggles, apparently blind to my irritation. “Then maybe you’re in the wrong place.”

Ain’t that the truth.

I should’ve stuck to my original plan—gone to the coast, taken the boat out, let the sea air clear my head. Instead, I’m surrounded by plastic smiles and bullshit small talk, at yet another charity ball, pretending to be a semi-functional member of polite society.

There’s only one reason I’m here, and that reason is a no-show. Sir Sebastian Whitmore—the elderly owner of Trafalgar Lifestyle Stores. TLS, as the public knows it, is a British shopping institution. Born back when Queen Vic was still alive and kicking, bearing the proud Whitmore family crest. It’s got a stranglehold on every high street from London to Glasgow, a true titan of British retail.

It’s also the company I’ve been meticulously lining up to acquire, for the last six months. Hence why I’m gracing this ego-stroking charity soirée with my presence.

Normally, I’d just whip out the checkbook, scribble enough zeroes to give their stuffed-shirt accountant a stiffy, and call it a night. But Whitmore’s continued delays and stalling tactics over our generous offer have tested the limits of my patience. So, I decided to pull out the big guns and show up in person, mainly to demand why the fuck his legal team is dragging ass on our offer.

Except the old bastard had the balls to no-show his own party.

Whitmore’s cavalier attitude is starting to grate on my nerves. He’s playing games like I’m some wet-behind-the-ears kid he can jerk around, as if he has any hope of extracting a better offer than what’s already on the table for his floundering company. One way or another, I’ll acquire TLS. Because this isn’t just another acquisition to me. And if he thinks absurd delaying tactics will pressure me into sweetening my already ludicrously overvalued offer, he’s sorely mistaken.

Blondie gives me bedroom eyes, batting those fake lashes like her life depends on it. I’ll say this for her—the girl’s a looker. A real head-turner, even in those ridiculous heels that put her almost at eye level with my 6’3′ frame.

That coy smile plays on her lips, like she’s expecting me to play Prince Charming and kiss her hand. That glossy pout juts out, but I catch the flicker of doubt in her eyes as I firmly guide her hand away.

“Why show up if you’re so miserable?” she whines.

“Because my company wanted to show support for the charity,” I reply flatly.

Her eyes light up. “It’s so impressive that you own Cashbury Thornton.”

“Mmm.” I don’t bother correcting her on the company name. Not like it matters.

“So like, what does your company even do? Buy stocks and stuff? I’m totally clueless about finance.”

I take a slow sip of scotch. “We’re a private equity firm.”

“Oh wow, I don’t even know what that is.” She giggles, as if ignorance is some kind of cute quirk. “But maybe you could explain it to me? Like, in simple terms?”

It’s taking every ounce of restraint not to roll my eyes. This night is shaping up to be a real winner.

I get it. I don’t expect everyone to understand the intricacies of how a multibillion-pound private equity firm operates. If financial markets aren’t your thing, fine. And on a reasonable day, I would indulge the curious. But Blondie here clearly has a one-track mind, and it sure as shit isn’t a burning desire to broaden her financial IQ.

“All right,” I drawl, letting my rapidly waning patience bleed into my tone. “We raise funds from investors, buy underperforming companies, whip them into shape, and sell them for a hefty profit. Kinda like farmers buying shitty plots of land, working their magic to make the crops thrive, then selling the land.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Like farmers?”

“That’s right. Farmers.”

I can tell from the glazed look in her eyes that she checked out of this stimulating conversation about five minutes ago. Too busy mentally stripping me out of my tux and planning all the filthy ways she’ll pry open my wallet. I’m not exactly riveted by our sparkling repartee either. I’ve already forgotten this woman’s name.

With a sigh, I take a long pull of my scotch. “To put it simply—we make money. That’s the long and short of it.”

She slithers closer until those porn-star tits press against my arm. Not tonight. Not in the mood.

“Mmm, sounds super intense,” she murmurs, trailing a finger down my lapel. She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. “But you know what they say, all work and no play makes Liam a dull, dull boy. And I can’t stand dull boys.”

“I play plenty.”

That pout transforms into a come-hither smirk. “Not with me, you haven’t. At least, not yet.”

I fix her with a look of indifference, letting the uncomfortable silence stretch until she starts to squirm. “That’s not on tonight’s agenda.”

“Don’t be like that,” she coaxes, leaning in until her cloying perfume threatens to choke me. “I bet I could change your mind. That sexy Northern growl of yours is doing all kinds of things to me. Yorkshire, right? It’s just so . . . rough.”

Her hand drifts south, manicured claws grazing over my zipper in a way that’s sure as hell no accident.

I capture her wrist before she can cop a more thorough feel. “Listen carefully, darling, because I’ll only say this once. I’m not interested. Are we clear on that point?”

She recoils like I slapped her, choking on an outraged gasp. “Well, I never—”

“Liam.”

That cocky voice behind me makes me stiffen. I turn slowly, coming face-to-face with the one asshole who never fails to make my blood boil.

Alastair fucking Charles Harrington. The pretentious prick actually introduces himself with his full name like he’s royalty. He’s missing the “fucking” part, but it damn well belongs there.

“Alastair.” I adjust my cuffs with a sharp, aggressive yank, needing to do something with my hands. “If you’ll excuse me,” I grit out to the blond.

She looks affronted but hides it behind a sultry smile and struts off. I turn my full attention to Harrington, every muscle in my body coiled tight.

“I rather thought I might run into you here,” he says, that smarmy smile of his making me want to knock every last one of his teeth down his throat. “What with TLS sponsoring this soirée. And you being such a philanthropist.”

The sneer in his posh drawl makes my fists clench. “Ashbury Thornton donates generously to numerous worthy causes each year,” I state tightly.

“Well, it’s splendid to run into you. I’ve been meaning to reach out. We really must get together for a drink soon,” he pushes, that infuriating smirk growing. “Seeing as we’re about to be such close . . . neighbors, and all that.”

“Think I’ll take a hard pass.”

“Come now, Liam.” He chuckles, the smug bastard. “We’ll be right next door before you know it.”

“London’s a big fucking city, Alastair. I’m sure we can survive without forced social interaction.”

“Oh, I don’t just mean London. I’ve just signed the papers on the top floors of Tower 79. Seemed a prime location for the new Vertex Capital headquarters.”

My grip tightens on my glass. That underhanded, weaselly shit. He’s leased the top floors of the building right beside mine. The fucker’s literally positioning himself to look down on me.

“Such a smashing view from up there, I simply couldn’t resist.” That smug look intensifies. “I’ll be sure to give a friendly wave,” he adds with a wink.

Something primal snaps inside me at his words. I want to rip his throat out with my bare hands, to show this blue-blooded prick what I think of his show of disrespect.

But I never lose control.

I force myself to exhale slowly, lips curving into a sharp smile devoid of warmth. “Let’s hope you secure enough work to afford the rent up there. Overheads can be a bitch when you’re overcompensating.”

He chuckles. “That shan’t be an issue. We’ve been landing some rather major deals as of late. It appears the London market was in dire need of fresh blood. Oh, and no hard feelings about the Huxley acquisition last month, by the way. Just a spot of healthy competition, you understand. All part of the game.”

I go still, my grip on the glass turning my knuckles white.

“Must be quite the accomplishment,” I snap, voice laced with unadulterated disdain, “for a nepotistic little cunt like you to go crying to Daddy every time the game gets too tough.” My lip curls in a sneer of pure disgust. “How damn convenient to have a Lord for a father—greasing all the right palms with old money so his average son can stay nice and safe from any real competition.”

Alastair’s eyes light up, clearly delighted with getting a rise out of me. “Ah, there he is, the Liam I know so well, desperately trying to obscure his gutter roots with bespoke suits and an inflated ego.”

“I’m plenty secure in my self-made success,” I drawl, refusing to let this trust fund baby get under my skin. “So by all means, keep mocking my humble origins if it helps soothe your crippling insecurities over being a perpetual disappointment to Daddy.”

Alastair and I, we might’ve shared the same boarding school, but that’s where the similarities end. While he was born with a silver spoon so far up his ass he shits sterling, I was shipped off to boarding school for very different reasons by a rich stepdad who couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. Reasons I should probably be in therapy for—but that’s what the Berkeley Athenæum is for.

I catch sight of Alastair’s breathtaking wife Victoria, but the moment she spots us together, she wisely changes direction, beelining for some pearl-clutching socialite instead.

I toss her a wave, and she returns it with a smile.

“Vicky’s a vision, as always. I should pay my respects,” I say, my smile all teeth.

Alastair goes rigid, like someone shoved a polo mallet up his already uptight upper-class ass. “She’s Victoria to you, and she’s got no interest in trading words with you.”

Still a sore spot after all these years. Guess some wounds cut deep for him too.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Alastair sneers, giving me a condescending slap on the back. “I’ll be sure to wave hello from my new office next week, neighbor.”

I toss back the remnants of my scotch and swipe another from a passing waiter, barely restraining the impulse to launch the heavy crystal at the back of Alastair’s head.

I need air before I do something that’ll make tomorrow’s newspapers. I head for the balcony, shouldering past a flock of giggling socialites.

The crisp night breeze is a welcome change from the suffocating air inside—exactly what I need right now. I grip the railing and stare at the sea of taillights crawling through Kensington.

Fishing a cigar from my jacket pocket, I light up and take a deep, steadying pull, savoring the burn in my lungs. If there was ever a night to indulge in a vice or two, this is it. Fucking Alastair, still getting under my skin. Pathetic.

Leaning against the balcony railing, I exhale a thick cloud of smoke and attempt to collect my rage into something approximating calm detachment. The distant hum of traffic makes for decent white noise.

Blowing out another plume of smoke, I turn my attention back to the street below. Only to be interrupted by the insistent buzz of my phone with an email notification.

I take out my phone. I’m half tempted to ignore it, to wallow in my scotch and nicotine haze without interruption. But the filename that pops up—“Gemma’s Therapy Diary”—catches my eye.

What the hell is this?

The first few lines hit me like a sledgehammer to the balls. I choke on my cigar, coughing out a cloud of smoke.

Dear Diary,

Most people don’t have to purge all the reasons their boss pisses them off. And they certainly don’t rack up new reasons to do so every fucking day. There’s something seriously wrong with this picture.

You know what would make me feel better?

Wrapping McLaren’s stupid tie around his thick, muscular neck and squeezing until that infuriatingly smug mouth of his is begging me for mercy.

“What the hell?” I mutter, my cigar nearly tumbling over the railing as I do a mental double-take. I blink, half convinced that I must be seeing shit. There’s no way those words are on my screen right now. No way in hell.

This must be some kind of prank. A majorly inappropriate prank, but a prank nonetheless.

Because there’s no way, in this universe or any other, that my prim-and-proper HR manager would ever let such filthy insults spill from those tightly pursed lips of hers—let alone put that shit in writing about me.

Not in a million years.

. . . a tyrannical, control-freak, big swinging dick . . .

I’d applaud her creativity if I wasn’t the target of her literary venom. And she’s not entirely wrong on some of those points.

All night, it’s been the same old bullshit: people lining up to kiss my ass, telling me what a great man I am for throwing money at their pet causes, nodding at every word out of my mouth.

And now, amidst all the fake smiles and hollow praise, I finally get a dose of unfiltered truth. From Gemma Jones, of all people. Now I’m trying to decide if I enjoy this novelty. I’m certainly not accustomed to it, that’s for sure.

Gemma has never gone out of her way to kiss my ass before, but she’s always been rigidly professional and respectful to my face. These blistering insults read like they were written by a completely different person. Her angry, evil twin.

. . . swans off to his fancy event . . .

I find myself yanking at my bowtie, maybe the same damn tie Gemma’s been daydreaming about using to choke the life out of me in disturbingly vivid detail. Just who does this woman think she is to disrespect me like this?

Has she forgotten that I’m the one signing her paychecks? The one whose deadlines and demands aren’t polite suggestions, but the bloody law to be followed to the letter, without question or pushback of any kind.

She must have been blackout drunk when she saved this scorching manifesto to our shared folder. There’s no other explanation for this level of career suicide from my straightlaced HR Manager.

I’d march right up to him, look him dead in those brooding eyes, and say, “Listen up, McLaren. I’ve got a team of Isle of Wight farmers slaving away over a hot stove to create the most pretentious finger foods known to man. So you can take your ‘reschedule the meeting’ and shove it right up your perfectly toned, Armani-clad ass.

Fuck me. I can’t figure out whether I’m amused or enraged. Or something else entirely.

I push off the railing as a scorching image blazes through my mind.

Gemma Jones. My buttoned-up, by-the-book HR manager. Only now she’s anything but professional. She’s a force of nature, shoving me back into my chair with a strength that makes my cock hard. This Gemma has claws.

Straddling my lap, green eyes blazing with unholy fury as that prim mouth of hers, the one that’s always spouting rules and regulations, now spews the filthiest words I’ve ever heard. Those tiny hands wrapping around my throat, nails digging into my skin as she hisses exactly what she thinks of my “bullshit” demands . . .

And fuck me if I don’t kind of like it.

I swallow hard, appalled at the flare of heat licking through my veins. That mental image has no right being as effective as it is.

This must be a mistake. There’s no way . . .

I double-check the folder. This is our private folder. Just me and her. Christ, is she having a breakdown?

Five long years this woman has worked for me, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never even heard her utter a “darn” or “heck,” let alone the colorful profanities she’s typed up here.

Gemma Jones, the poster girl for workplace propriety.

With a few aggressive taps, I pull up my calendar and send off an invite, summoning her to my office at the crack of dawn.

Miss Jones has committed the ultimate workplace sin tonight. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill workplace rebellion—a missed deadline, or a chair thrown in a moment of passion. No, this is flat-out mutiny of the highest order. The professional equivalent of pissing in my morning protein shake.

Gemma has disrespected me on a level I can barely comprehend. Some might even go so far as to say she utterly roasted me in that deranged rant of hers.

Unfortunately for her, I’m not just a “tyrannical, control-freak, big swinging dick.”

I’m the tyrannical, control-freak, big swinging dick who can make or break her career.

Sweet dreams, Miss Jones. Enjoy them while you can.