Page 21 of Dancing With Distraction

I roll my eyes, knowing that’s bullshit. “I came here to get away from his suffocating ways and he followed me. Please don’t tell him stuff about me that’s private.”

“I don’t know why you dislike him so much?—”

“Because he’s fucking mental,” I hiss before she can finish, and she looks taken aback. I take a calming breath and press my lips in a fine line, choosing my next words carefully. “Please respect my wishes. As my friend, I’m asking . . . no, I’m begging you not to tell him anything about my life.”

She eyes me for a few seconds before nodding once. “Okay.”

Kat’s is busy considering it’s only nine-thirty. I head right for the VIP area, hoping I’m not too early to catch him because I’d hate to miss a little interaction with him. It’s good for my soul.

The usual gorilla is by the ropes, and he smirks the second he sees me. I’m starting to think he likes our banter. “Let me just say,” I begin, and he rolls his eyes, folding his arms over his large chest, “that I don’t want any trouble.”

“From what I heard, you’ve already been in here today and caused trouble. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“You shouldn’t gossip . . .” I pause, not quite recalling his name.

“Darren,” he tells me, and I grin, holding out my hand for him to shake. He arches a brow until I retract it. Maybe we’re not quite at that stage in our relationship.

“I’m here to see the bossman.”

“Is he expecting you?”

I grin wider, and he groans. “Fuck’s sake, you’re definitely gonna die in this bar.” He takes a few steps away from me and speaks into a radio, then he returns. “It’s your lucky day. He’s on his way down.”

I begin to pace, excitement rushing through me at the thought of seeing him again. The feeling soon dampens when I see him striding towards me with her hot on his heels. My heart slams wildly in my chest, wondering if this is some kind of sick joke and they’re about to laugh at me. Marcus’s words come back to haunt me, just like they always do, and I swallow down the doubts mixed with the sickness swirling in my stomach.

“Ms. Harding, you wanted to see me?” His voice is stern and business-like.

“It’s about the payment,” I mutter, not quite meeting his eye, “for your car.”

“Follow me.” He turns, heading back the way he came, briefly stopping beside the woman and speaking in her ear. She looks me up and down as he kisses her on the cheek, then he continues to lead the way, leaving her behind.

We go into his office. I didn’t take much notice earlier, but it’s magnificent, with hardwoods and a desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling window looking out over London. “Forget the money,” he says once he’s closed the door.

“I’d like to pay my debt.”

“I don’t need your money.”

“And I don’t need your charity,” I snap.

“Did you do your research?”

I pull open my chequebook and go over to his desk, taking an expensive-looking pen from the pot. “How much?”

“Victoria, don’t make me ask again,” he warns, smirking.

I arch a brow. “Or you’ll what?” He takes a step towards me, and I step back, just out of his reach, refusing to be lured in again when he’s got his fucking girlfriend right outside.

“Do we need a repeat of today?”

“How much do I owe?” I demand to know.

He sighs. “Two thousand eight hundred.”

I gasp. “For a fucking scratch?”

“You went through three layers of paint on a Range Rover Autobiography. It’s a month old.”

I swallow my pride. “I may have to pay in instalments.” I write the cheque for three hundred pounds, rip it from the book, and hand it to him.

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