Lucy King – The Party Starts at Midnight (страница 1)
‘You said you weren’t interested.’
‘I lied. I’m interested.’
‘No,’ she breathed, managing to sound outraged, sexy and needy all at the same time—which so wasn’t the plan.
‘Why not?’
‘I never mix business with pleasure,’ she said, focusing on one of the founding principles of her company, albeit a bit belatedly.
‘Neither do I. But the party’s over and we no longer have business together.’
‘We might. Hopefully.’
‘What does that have to do with now?’ he asked, his gaze roaming slowly, sensuously, over her features. ‘All I’m suggesting is a kiss.’
Yeah, right. Like they’d stop at a kiss. Like she’d be able to. A kiss would be the beginning.
THE PARTY STARTS AT MIDNIGHT is one of two books that feature a couple of property tycoon brothers. Both are gorgeous (naturally!) but very different. Leo—the numbers man—is dark and serious, while Jake—the ‘face’ of the company—is more of a charmer.
First up is Leo, whose calm, ordered life is just as he likes it. Until, that is, he meets events planner Abby Summers—and from that moment on he’s in a complete spin. As a perfectionist, career-driven Abby’s none too happy about the chaos Leo brings to her thought processes either.
I loved the idea of two people who think they have life sussed and then, like two hydrogen atoms crashing together with a whole lot of heat—
I hope that you love it too.
LUCY KING spent her formative years lost in the world of Mills & Boon® romance when she really ought to have been paying attention to her teachers. Up against sparkling heroines, gorgeous heroes and the magic of falling in love, trigonometry and absolute ablatives didn’t stand a chance.
But as she couldn’t live in a dream world for ever she eventually acquired a degree in languages and an eclectic collection of jobs. A stroll to the River Thames one Saturday morning led her to her very own hero. The minute she laid eyes on the hunky rower getting out of a boat, clad only in Lycra and carrying a three-metre oar as if it was a toothpick, she knew she’d met the man she was going to marry. Luckily the rower thought the same.
She will always be grateful to whatever it was that made her stop dithering and actually sit down to type Chapter One, because dreaming up her own sparkling heroines and gorgeous heroes is pretty much her idea of the perfect job.
Originally a Londoner, Lucy now lives in Spain, where she spends much of her time reading, failing to finish cryptic crosswords, and trying to convince herself that lying on the beach really
Visit her at www.lucykingbooks.com
The Party Starts at Midnight
Lucy King
To my wonderful readers, without whom I couldn’t do a job I love.
Table of Contents
AS THE LIFT DOORS opened with an expensively soft swoosh, Abby gave her head a quick shake to dispel the ear-popping dizziness caused by the thirty-floors-in-three-seconds ascension, and stepped into the hall of the penthouse suite of London’s newest South Bank hotel.
‘Hello?’ she called, her voice ringing out weirdly loudly in the silence of the apartment. And then, after a moment during which there was no answer, she tried again. ‘Mr Cartwright? … Leo? … Anyone? ‘
But there was still no reply.
Frowning slightly, she headed down the hall, barely noticing the thick cream carpet her heels were sinking into or the cool sophistication of the dove-grey walls that stretched out either side of her, and came upon the sitting room. A quick scan showed it to be huge and beautifully furnished but disappointingly empty, as, she subsequently discovered, were the kitchen, laundry room, library, cinema, gym and study.
If she hadn’t been on a mission to locate the man allegedly holed up within and remind him about the party in full swing downstairs—the party he was supposed to be attending but wasn’t—Abby might have been blown away by the sheer scale and luxury of the place.
She might have ditched her precious clipboard and marvelled at the spectacular view of London at night, all lit up like the enormous Christmas tree that sat in the lobby downstairs, and showcased by the acres of window. She might have oohed and aahed over the gorgeous chrome-and-crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling and cast subtle light over the antiques, and then thrown herself onto one of the three plush, charcoal velvet-covered sofas with a sigh of pleasure.
She might have lingeringly run her fingers along the gleaming granite work surfaces in the kitchen, had a quick go on one of the many machines in the state-of-the-art gym or wondered about the nearly empty bottle of whisky that sat on the desk in the study and the glass that lay on its side on a messy pile of faintly stained papers beside it.
As it was, she didn’t have either the time or the inclination to gawp, cop a feel or wonder about the possible evidence of a drinking session because the sumptuousness of his home wasn’t important right now. What
If only she could find him.
Still in the study Abby put down her clipboard, and, out of habit, picked up the glass and put it on a coaster she saw peeping out from beneath a book. Then shuffled the papers into a neat pile.
She had to admit that despite Jake’s assurance that his brother was definitely up here, the silence and general air of absence didn’t bode particularly well.
And OK, so there was still the bedroom/bathroom half of the flat that she hadn’t searched, but there was no way she was heading in that direction. It was bad enough that she was in Leo’s flat uninvited in the first place, and, even though Jake had said he’d take full responsibility for any outcome, she absolutely drew the line at scouring the bedrooms without some kind of authorisation at least.
Perching on the edge of the desk, she took her phone out of the discreet little pouch sewn into the inside of her belt and scrolled down until she came to Jake’s number. She hit the dial button, waited for a second and then, when he picked up, said, ‘Jake, I’m afraid there’s no sign of him.’
‘What, nowhere?’ came the deep voice at the other end of the line.
‘Not that I can see. Are you sure he’s up here?’
‘About ninety-nine per cent. He was when I last spoke to him. Where have you looked?’