Beautiful Secret Page 3

  I looked up, at the load of emails in my inbox, at the stacks of contracts on my desk, and then at the clock, which told me it was long past time to head home. Outside, the sky had gone dark. Once I returned home tonight I would need to start packing for New York and would barely make a dent in the work in front of me before then.

  “Portia. I’m sorry. I really must go. I’m sorry about the dog but I can’t make it work next week.”

  “Right,” she sighed. “Get stuffed.”

  I stared at my desk for several seconds after she’d hung up, feeling faintly sick, before setting my mobile down. I had only two breaths to recover before the door to my office flew open and Tony stepped in.

  “Bad news, mate.”

  I looked up, lifting my brow in silent question.

  “The wife’s gone and started contractions.”

  My siblings had enough children for me to know that Tony’s wife wasn’t far enough along for this. “She’s all right?”

  He shrugged. “Sentenced to bed till the kid is here. Hence: I’m staying in London.”

  Relief spread through my blood. Tony was a decent colleague, but a business trip with him usually meant nightly visits to strip clubs, and it was honestly the last thing I wanted to do for a month in New York. “So I’ll go it alone, then,” I said, my tone already lighter than it had been only a moment ago.

  Tony shook his head. “I’m sending Ruby.”

  It took a couple of ticks for me to place who he meant. Richardson-Corbett wasn’t a large firm, but Tony hired as many pretty young interns as his budget allowed. There were a few on his team now and I could never quite keep them sorted. “She the brunette from Essex?”

  His expression of disappointed envy was so pronounced it was nearly audible. “No. The delectable bit from California.”

  Oh. I knew which one he meant. The one who came to my rescue today when I’d experienced an uncharacteristic stumble.

  Ironically, I’d been flustered over the sight of her. She was lovely.

  Alas . . . “She’s the one who seemed concerned you were leaving for a month?”

  I could practically see Tony’s head growing, and he smiled proudly. “That’s right.”

  “Is it really necessary to send someone, though?” I asked. “Most of the meetings will be logistics anyway. Engineering was only going to advise.”

  “Aw, ya prat. I’m sure you can get her to go to the titty bars with you.”

  I groaned inwardly. “That isn’t—”

  “And besides,” he interrupted, “she’s fit as all fuck. You may not need a girly bar if you’re getting a leg over on Ruby. All legs, good tits, bloody fantastic face.”

  “Tony,” I said with steady calm, “I’m not going to ‘get a leg over’ on an intern.”

  “Maybe you should. If I wasn’t tied down, I sure as fuck would pull that.” He let the silence bounce around the room, and I tried to hide my disgust that he seemed more disappointed that he was unable to shag Ruby than worried that his wife had gone into labor early. “How long since you’ve been out?”

  I blinked away from his challenging expression, looking down at my desk. I hadn’t dated since the divorce and, except for the drunken grope I’d received at the pub a few weeks back, hadn’t been close to a woman in what felt like forever.

  “Right, so you’re staying here,” I deflected, “and Ruby is coming along to New York. Have you gone over the agenda with her?”

  “I told her the agenda is you get there, hit the bars, get pissed, get a leg over.”

  I wiped a hand over my face, groaning. “Bloody hell.”

  He laughed, turning and walking to my door. “Of course I gave her the agenda. I’m just taking the piss. She’s a good one, Niall. She may even impress the likes of you.”

  * * *

  I was alone in the lift, heading out for the night, when Ruby stepped in just as the doors were closing. Our eyes met, I coughed harshly, her breath caught . . . and descending in the weighted silence became immediately dreadful.

  The lift moved too slowly.

  The quiet felt enormous.

  We were going on a business trip together, and glancing at her now—young and energetic and, admittedly, unbelievably beautiful—I registered we would be required to chat and get on, and there were few things I was worse at than talking up women.

  She opened her mouth to speak, and then stopped, falling back into silence. When she looked at me and I looked over, she blinked away. Just as the doors opened in the lobby, I gestured for her to lead us out, and instead of moving, she nearly shouted, “Looks like we’re going away together!”

  “Too right,” I said, but my smile felt stiff.

  Try, Niall. Try to get it out of robot mode for at least one conversation.

  Nothing. My brain felt like a sieve, completely void of social pleasantries. And she still didn’t exit the lift.

  The moment needed to end. I was bloody awful at small talk, and close up, she was even more attractive than I’d expected. Several inches shorter than I, but by no means short, Ruby was willowy and toned, with short, playfully mussed golden hair, sun-kissed cheeks . . . and a truly perfect mouth.

  Ruby was rather exquisite. On some strange instinct, I held my breath.

  She shrugged a little, smiling. “I’m from the States but I’ve never been to New York. I’m really excited.”

  “Ah. Well . . .” I searched for a good response, looking around the small space before eventually settling on “That’s good.”

  I groaned inwardly. That was bad, even for me.

  Her eyes were enormous, green and so clear I registered with one glance down at them that she was unlikely to be a very good liar: her entire world spilled out her through those eyes, and right now she was an anxious heap.

  I was a VP at the firm. Of course she was nervous around me.

  “Will we meet at the airport on Monday morning?” she asked, looking back up. Her tongue slipped out to wet her lips and I fixed my attention to the middle of her forehead.

  “Yes, I believe so,” I began and then stopped. Was I meant to arrange a car for the two of us? Dear God, if three minutes in a lift was this bad, I couldn’t fathom how claustrophobic the forty-five-minute commute to Heathrow would feel. “Unless—”

  “I don’t—”

  “You—”

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, cheeks bright. “I interrupted you. Go ahead.”

  I sighed. “Please, go ahead.”

  This was abysmal. I longed for her to move aside to simply let me pass. Or, for the ground to open up, swallow me whole.

  “I can just meet you at the airport.” She hitched her satchel higher over her shoulder, gesturing inexplicably behind her. “At the gate, I mean. It’ll be really early, you don’t need to—”

  “I won’t. That is, I wouldn’t.”

  She blinked, understandably confused. I’d completely lost track of what we were even talking about. “Okay. Good. Of course, you . . . wouldn’t.”

  I looked over her shoulder to the blessed freedom beyond and then back to her. “That’ll be fine.”

  The door to the lift began to buzz in warning as I continued to hold it ajar, a shrill soundtrack to what had to be one of the most awkward encounters ever.

  “So I’ll see you Monday.” Her voice wavered with nerves, and I felt a cold sweat prick at the back of my neck. “I’m really looking forward to it,” she said.

  “Right. Good.”

  With a little tilt of her head, and a final blush that exploded rather sweetly across her cheeks, she stepped off the lift.

  Without really intending to, my eyes drifted to her backside as she went. It was round, high, perfectly shaped in her smooth, dark skirt. I could imagine the curve of it in my palm, could still smell the whiff of rose water she left in her wake.

  I stepped out into the dark lobby and followed her toward the exit. Without effort, my mind drifted to thoughts of how her breasts would fill my hands, the feel of her mou
th on me, my palms on her backside. I wasn’t rubbish in bed, was I? And even though Portia had generally treated sex as a favor to me, she had never once failed to enjoy—

  This unconscious flash of interest was quashed when Tony emerged from the stairwell, giving me a wink and a little wiggle of his brow, murmuring, “Shagfest,” as Ruby rounded the corner. Left in its place was a sour twinge of shame for letting his earlier suggestion worm its way into my head.

  * * *

  Growing up with twelve people in the house, air travel simply didn’t happen often, and when it did—the odd puddle jumper with a few kids to Ireland and once, when it was only me and Rebecca left at home, Mum and Dad took us to Rome to see the pope—it put the entire house in an uproar of preparation. We had regular Sunday clothes that weren’t as posh as our Christmas mass kits, and even those were yards below our air travel outfits. It was a hard habit to break, even when dressing before the sun rose, but this history dictated why I found myself at Heathrow, wearing a suit at four thirty on Monday morning.

  By contrast, Ruby sprinted in just at my panic point—when the flight was boarding—in a zip-front pink hoodie, black workout pants, and bright blue trainers. I saw the response to her pass through the crowd in a quiet ripple. I couldn’t tell if Ruby noticed or not, but nearly every set of male eyes—and many female as well—followed her as she made her way toward our gate.

  She looked casual but fresh, her cheeks flushed from her run and her full, pink lips parted as she caught her breath.

  She stopped short when she found me in the crowd, her eyes going wide as saucers.

  “Shit.” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “I mean, crap,” she mumbled from behind it. “Do we have a meeting right when we land?” She began searching through her phone. “I memorized the schedule and I could have sworn—”

  I felt my brows pull together. “No . . . ?” She’d memorized our schedule?

  “I . . . you look really dressed up for the plane. I feel like a hobo in comparison.”

  I wasn’t sure whether I was meant to feel insulted or praised. “You don’t look like a hobo.”

  She groaned, covering her face. “It’s a long flight. I thought we were going to sleep.”

  I smiled politely, though the thought of sleeping next to her on a flight created an anxious, gnawing sensation in my gut. “I’ve a few work things to do before we arrive. Feel better dressed for the occasion, that’s all.”

  I wasn’t actually sure which one of us had misjudged, but looking at the attire on most of the boarding passengers around us, I was beginning to understand it was me.

  With one last wary glance at my suit, she turned and made her way down the jetway to board and stowed her tote in the overhead above our seats. I made every effort to not look at her backside again . . . and failed.

  Sweet Lord. It was unbelievable.

  Oblivious, Ruby turned and I pulled my gaze up to her face just as she gestured to the two seats. “Do you want the aisle or window?” she asked.

  “Either is fine.”

  I removed my suit coat and handed it to the flight attendant, watching as Ruby slid into the window seat and tucked away her iPad and book, keeping a small notebook with her.

  Seated beside her, and even with the rest of the passengers still boarding, a heavy silence descended between us. Christ. Not only did we have six hours on the flight today, but then nearly four weeks in New York together for the summit.

  Four weeks. I felt mildly ill.

  I suppose I could ask her how she liked Richardson-Corbett or how long she’d lived in London. She wasn’t under my charge, but working for Tony, I was sure her time there had been . . . eventful. I could ask her where she grew up—though I knew from Tony it was California. At least it might break the ice a little.

  But then we would be required to keep talking, and that definitely didn’t seem to be going well. Best to just leave it.

  “Can I offer you a beverage before we lift off?” the flight attendant asked before setting a napkin down in front of me.

  I deferred to Ruby, and she leaned closer to speak to the woman over the din of travelers boarding the plane. Her breast pressed to the arm of my shirt, and I felt my entire body go stiff, careful to not seem to lean into . . . it.

  “I’ll have some champagne,” Ruby said.

  The flight attendant smiled uncomfortably as she nodded—no doubt it wasn’t something they generally poured before five in the morning—and turned to me.

  “I . . .” I began, haltingly. Should I order champagne, too, so it wasn’t odd for her to do it? Or should I set the example for professional decorum and order the grapefruit juice I’d planned for? “Well, I suppose if it’s not too much trouble, I could also—”

  Ruby held up a hand. “I’m totally kidding, by the way. Sorry. Joke bomb! I mean no! Not a bomb, I’d never joke about . . . that.” She closed her eyes and groaned. “I’ll just have some OJ.”

  I looked up, sharing a brief, confused expression with the flight attendant. “I’ll take grapefruit juice, please.”

  With our orders noted, the flight attendant left and Ruby turned to me. Something about her face, the unguarded honesty in her eyes . . . it triggered a tender protectiveness in me I was wholly unaccustomed to.

  She blinked away, moving to stare so hard at her tray I was afraid she would crack it through sheer intensity.

  “All right?” I asked.

  “Just—sorry about that. And yes. I—” She paused and then tried again. “I wasn’t going to order champagne. Did you really think that?”

  “Well.” She had ordered it, even if only in jest. “No?” I hoped that was the right answer.

  “And that whole bomb thing,” she whispered, waving a hand in front of her as if to push the thought away. “I am such an idiot around you.”

  “Just me?”

  She slumped and I realized how it had sounded.

  “No. I . . . that is, I take issue with what you’re saying: I’ve never seen you act like an idiot around me.”

  “The elevator?”

  Smiling, I conceded this. “Well.”

  “And right now?”

  This twisted something inside me. “Is there anything I can do?”

  She blinked up to my face and gazed at me with a familiar sort of fondness.

  And then she blinked, shaking her head once, and it was gone. “I’ll be fine. Just nervous about a trip with the director of planning and blah blah.”

  Wanting to put her more at ease, I asked, “Where did you do your undergraduate work?”

  She took a deep breath, and then turned to face me fully. “UC San Diego.”

  “Engineering?”

  “Yes. With Emil Santorini.”

  I acknowledged this with a small lift of my brow. “He’s tough.”

  She grinned. “He’s amazing.”

  A sharp curl of interest spiked through me. “Only the brilliant ones come out feeling that way.”

  “Push through or break,” she said, shrugging as she accepted her orange juice from the flight attendant with a bright smile. “That’s what he said the first week in the lab. He wasn’t wrong. Three of us started in there at the same time. I was the only one still there by Christmas our first year.”

  “Why are you in London?” I asked, though I suspected I already knew.

  “Hoping to make it into the Civil program. I’m already in the engineering general but haven’t heard from Margaret Sheffield yet whether I’m in her group.”

  “She doesn’t decide until just before the term starts. Makes the students completely barking mad, if memory serves.”

  “We engineers like our calendars and spreadsheets and plans. Not the most patient bunch, I guess.”

  I smiled. “Like I said. Barking mad.”

  She pulled the corner of her lip into her mouth and smiled back. “You didn’t study with her.”

  “Not officially, but she was more a mentor to me than my own mentor was.”


  “How long after you finished did Petersen retire?”

  I felt my eyes widen. How much did she know about my old department? About me? “I suspect you already know the answer to that question.”

  She sipped her juice and apologized quietly after swallowing. “I knew you were his last student but I guess I was curious to hear how bad it was.”

  “It was abysmal,” I admitted. “He was a drunk and more than that—a ruddy awful person. But that was nearly ten years ago. You were a child. How do you know all of this?”

  She pursed her lips slightly and I felt my skin flush warm. Christ. She was so beautiful.

  “One answer,” she started with a small smile, “is that I learned about Maggie Sheffield’s work when I was a sophomore and we toured the Stately building. I grew kind of obsessed with getting to study under her before she retired. When I asked Emil about her, he also shared some of the history of your old department.” Shrugging, she said, “I heard a few stories about Petersen.”

  I tilted my head, wondering which ones still floated around.

  “He threw a bottle at a student?” she asked.

  Ah. The one story that would never die. “He did, but it wasn’t me. The worst I ever got from him was a verbal berating . . . or ten.”

  Ruby nodded, looking relieved.

  She’d said one answer was this. “And the other answer?” I asked.

  She looked out the window for a few breaths before saying, “I joined R-C and found out you’d studied at Oxford, and wondered if you’d been in Maggie’s program. You hadn’t but . . . I learned a bit about you anyway.”

  There seemed to be an extra layer to what she was saying, and I thought for a beat I understood the look of fond familiarity she’d given me only a moment before. But then she turned back, wearing a sweetly devious grin. “You’d be amazed how much you can pick up just by paying attention.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Sitting up in her seat, she said, “You came over from your position at the London Underground to start up an urban planning division. You went to Cambridge for undergraduate, Oxford for graduate school, and were the youngest executive in the history of the Tube.” Ruby gave me a shy smile. “You nearly moved to New York to work for the Metropolitan Transportation Authority but turned the job down to come to R-C.”