Page 41 of Audacity

‘The Ritz?’ he suggests as we meander down Berkeley Street.

‘It would be rude not to,’ I agree.

We settle on a well-stuffed sofa in the iconic Rivoli Bar. Its walnut panelled walls and gold Art Deco flourishes feel decadent, even in the middle of a January afternoon.

‘The thing you need to know about our Angel Gabriel,’ George begins conspiratorially, ‘is that he’s shockingly bad at looking after himself. I don’t mean he’s incompetent—he lived by himself for years, obviously—but he doesn’t put himself first.’

I refrain for now from saying that Gabriel has indulged in quite the act of self care by hiring me. Sex on tap aside, I can well believe it.

‘Go on.’

‘You can take the man out of the priesthood, but it’s a lot harder to take the priesthood out of the man, if you catch my drift. He’s still a giver. He chats with everyone in the office like he’s hearing their confessions. And that recurring Wednesday lunchtime meeting in his calendar? That’s him trotting his lovely arse down to a soup kitchen off Ladbroke Grove.’

‘He volunteers at a soup kitchen?’ I ask. I don’t know why I’m surprised. It makes perfect sense, but it’s so… grass roots. Hands on. I assumed he would just throw money at these kinds of things.

‘Hefundsthe soup kitchen, and yeah, he volunteers there. A priest mate of his runs it—Father John. He was struggling to keep its doors open, so Gabriel stepped in and promised unlimited funding.’

‘Got it. What else should I know?’

‘He forgets to eat lunch unless I put it in front of him and stand there menacingly while he eats, and even then, he eats for fuel during the day. He’s definitely too low-maintenance for a billionaire. It’s most disappointing.’

‘How much have you had to bling him up?’ I ask, my eyes narrowing. I’m beginning to wonder if Gabriel would stillbe living like a priest if left to his own devices—seven-figure religious artefacts aside, obviously.

His grin is devilish. ‘Quite a lot. I’mverygood at spending other people’s money. I worked for the Royals before this, you know. Tight-fisted gits. So the suits are my doing. He was wearing high street suits when I came on board.’ We both shudder. ‘I tried to get him to go down the Tom Ford route—he has that fabulous, rangy body shape—but he ended up going to Savile Row. Still, he cleans up well. And his house has been a whole thing. What a fucking palaver.’ He puts up his hands in a show of resignation.

‘How so?’

‘Well, he took on one of his family’s properties—nice place in Manchester Square. You know, just by the Wallace Collection? Anyway, it had great bones but inside it was like something out of an Eighties bonkbuster. Strictly between us, Maeve’s taste—that’s his mum—runs a little nouveau, bless her. So I took over the interior design project. We haven’t done much structural, but it’s been a gigantic ball ache. It’s just about done now, and it’s fucking fabulous, if I say so myself. Not a gold carriage clock in sight.’

I giggle. George is my kind of person: whip-smart and judgmental as fuck.

Also: that’s good intel about the house. Manchester Square isn’t too far from the office. Could be good for the occasional fuck.

When the server comes, I put a hand on George’s arm. ‘I vote we have a proper drink. I have something to tell you, and I’m not sure coffee’s going to cut it.’

We order—champagne for me and an old fashioned for him. Once our drinks have arrived, he sits back, nursing his cocktail and appraising me.

‘Let me have it, you little beauty. Jesus, I may love dick but you are frankly stunning. Honestly. You’ve put a few noses out of joint in the past twenty-four hours, believe me.’

I smile with satisfaction. ‘About that.’

‘What about it?’ He sits up straighter.

I pull a pen and a sheaf of papers out of my Birkin. ‘New NDA. Sign first, then I’ll tell you.’

He sighs as he slides the papers towards himself. ‘Another fucking NDA. This had better be worth it.’

‘Oh, it definitely will be.’

He signs with a flourish and picks up his tumbler. ‘Well? Shoot.’

‘Gabriel hasn’t just hired me as his EA,’ I begin, watching his face for a reaction as he takes a sip of his old fashioned. ‘He’s hired me to fuck him.’

He claps his free hand to his mouth and jerks forward, coughing violently. I remove his drink from his other hand. ‘You okay?’

‘No.’ He rasps out the word and continues to cough. ‘Nope.’

I wait until he has his choking under control. ‘Look. I know you’re attracted to him. I’m sorry.’

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