Page 112 of The Invitation

“Leighton’s a prick, but he’s successful. He’s also ruthless. He has a certain type of client, if you know what I mean.”

“Women.”

“Yes.”

“Then you need to watch your back.”

I smile. “There’s an adviser, Tilda Spector. She’s independent and starting to ease herself into retirement, so she’ll be dispersing some of her clients.”

Jude nods, thoughtful, offering me the jar. “And she’s got her eye on you?”

“I think so.” I take another crisp. “These are really good.”

“I know.”

“We talked at the conference,” I go on between chews. “She’s super knowledgeable. Recommended I get a mentor to help me with my journey.”

He hitches a brow. “I’ll happily mentor you.”

“In the bedroom?”

“Everywhere.” He purposely crunches another crisp, his eyes smoking, and I clear my throat, giving him a warning look. “Why don’t you just let me exterminate this Leighton prick and clear the path for you?”

“You’d do that for me?” I ask, my hand on my heart, serious.

His gorgeous smirk breaks at the corner and slowly spreads across his face, and I laugh when he grabs me and hauls me onto his lap, giving me a teasing dig in my ribs. I squeal, buck, but I get nowhere, trapped in his arms, at his mercy. It’s apt. He eases up on the torture and kisses my neck, working his way up onto my face.

I sigh happily as he pushes my hair back, looking into my eyes. “I think you’re incredible, Amelia.”

I puddle on the spot. This whole feeling is new to me, is amazing me more every minute, and his sincere interest in my career and ambitionsis intensifying this unfamiliar but incredible sense of contentment. “Thank you,” I whisper, looping my arms over his neck.

“You’ve got this.”

He’ll never appreciate what it means to hear that. Unable to stop myself, I lower my mouth to his and savour his hum of pleasure as he opens up to me and circles his tongue slowly with mine.

Last night’s drama feels like a world ago.

“Come with me, I want to show you something.” Jude stands and pockets his phone, putting his laptop behind the bar before leading me by my hand through Arlington Hall. And I follow, no objections. We take the outside route to Evelyn’s, which is closed, but the lights are on and the staff are cleaning or restocking. Jude leads me through a barn-style door and down some brick stairs, and some lights pop on, not bright, but just enough to see where we’re going. Which is where? “Watch your step,” he says, looking back to check I am, in fact, watching my step. He smiles mildly at my heels as I negotiate the bricks.

“What?” I ask, taking the rail for extra support.

“Bad shoe choice,” he muses.

“Well, they’re myonlychoice, so here we are.” We reach the bottom, and I stop dead in my tracks. “Oh my God,” I breathe, taking in the brick tunnel.

“It was an air raid shelter before it was a wine and champagne cellar,” he says, giving me a moment to take it all in. “Are you cold?” He comes in behind me and starts rubbing my bare, chilly arms.

“Not too much.” I break away, gazing around as I wander slowly down the long passageway. Racks of wine line each side, and brick arches stretch the width every ten metres or so. “This is incredible.”

“I know,” he says quietly behind me. The chink of my heels on the cobbles echoes around the vast tunnel. I see a few big wooden barrels dotted around. “We offer wine tasting days.”

“Of course you do,” I muse, smiling to myself as I drag my fingertips across one of the wooden racks, taking in the corks of the hundreds and hundreds of bottles. “How many are there?”

“Two thousand.”

I look back at him in astonishment. “You do nothing by halves, do you, Jude Harrison?”

A wicked glint in his eye blinds me. “Keep walking,” he orders, picking up his feet and slowly following me, his hands buried in his pockets.

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