I dive into the road and wave my arm in the air like a madwoman, searching for an available cab amid the sea of black cars. The indicator of one starts blinking, and it cuts across the traffic, pulling up to the kerb beside me.
Stepping off the pavement, I reach for the door handle, but that’s as far as I get. ‘Oh,’ I cry, as something crashes into my side, knocking me off balance. I stagger, losing my footing on the edge of the kerb, the damn heels that have crippled me all morning dictating my fate. The ground comes towards my face too fast for my brain to catch up and feed any instructions to my hands, which are refusing to come up and save me. Goddamn it.
Accepting the inevitable, I clench my eyes shut and wait for the paving slab to meet my face.
But it doesn’t.
There’s no thud, no pain, no yelp.
Warmth engulfs me, gathering me into a safe bundle and hauling me gently up, saving me from my imminent fall. There is a thud, there’s impact, but my landing is soft, and I’m still vertical. My arms are gathered in front of me, trapped between my chest and something firm. And the smell. Oh, Jesus, the smell. An inherently masculine smell, leather and spice and something lemony. It saturates my nose, makes my head spin.
‘Careful,’ a man whispers, gently setting me down.
My eyes remain locked on his throat – a throat that’s dusted with even, dark stubble. I should be thanking him. I should be straightening myself out. I should be getting in that cab before I’m late for my interview. But no matter how much I yell at myself on the inside to snap out of it, nothing on the outside is functioning. The roar of London around me is nothing but a muffled white noise.
I clutch my bag to my chest like a protective shield as I peek up. His hair is mousy brown, cut neatly and close to his head at the sides, but longer on top, set with what I know would have been a rough muss of wax-coated fingers. Hazel eyes with flecks of green are shining at me from behind thick-rimmed glasses that rest perfectly on his perfect nose. His eyes, framed with long lashes, are heavy and angelic, almost feminine, and look at me with a lazy, almost amused stare. Jesus, it’s all I can do not to step closer and study them. He looks familiar, and I cock my head, wondering where I could have seen him before. I’m being silly. I’ve been cooped up in Helston for most of my life. I couldn’t possibly know him.
My eyes drop like stones when I realise I’m staring, landing on some smart grey trousers. His stance widens, like he’s aware of the observation he’s under and has decided to showcase it in its best light. The material is pulling on his thighs a little from his hands filling his pockets. He has sturdy thighs. Strong thighs. Rugby-player thighs.
I cough my throat clear. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, taking hold of the cab’s door handle. But he moves fast, sweeping past me and jumping into the cab. My cab. ‘Hey,’ I say indignantly, my arm jarring as I lose my grip of the handle when he pulls the door shut behind him. I step back in shock. He doesn’t even look at me, doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s left me stranded on the kerbside. What I do see, though, is a broad back beneath a grey blazer and a navy scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. And then, when he settles in the seat, I catch sight of his profile. I’m rendered pathetic again for a second. He has the most perfect profile of any man I’ve ever seen.
I shake myself from my inappropriate observations. This wanker just stole my cab – an arsehole move that wipes out the fact that he saved me from my fall in the first place. Or that he’s a gorgeous son of a bitch. I will him to look at me so I can toss him an evil look, but the bastard evades my eyes and the cab pulls away before I can yank the door open and hurl a load of abuse at him.
Stunned and irritated, I stand on the kerb with my mouth open, staring at the rear of the cab driving away. He slowly turns his head and looks out of the back window. The cab might already be fifty-odd feet away, but I definitely see the slow formation of a smug smile.
‘You arsehole,’ I breathe, and stare for far too long until the cab gets lost among the other traffic. ‘Shit.’ I pull myself together.
My eyes shoot across the road, my arm flying into the air once more, but I don’t get lucky again. Every cab sails right past.
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head as I reach down and remove my heels. I don’t have the time or freedom to be bothered by what I’m about to do. ‘Excuse me,’ I sing as I rush down the street in my bare feet, weaving and dodging everyone in my path. My legs work fast, and despite drawing a few frowns from the pedestrians jumping from my path, I focus on making it to my interview on time.
But I’m not on time.
I land outside the grand building at quarter past ten after taking too many wrong turns. My face is damp, my long, red hair is in my eyes, and my cheeks are probably pinker than usual. I must look a mess.
Holding the side of the wall, I slip on my shoes then take a risky peek at my reflection in the window. ‘Bollocks.’ My fears are confirmed. I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. My brown eyes are watery, my mascara running. Hardly fitting for an elite auction house.
I spend the next five minutes straightening myself out, which now makes me a full twenty minutes late. If I wasn’t so desperate for the job, I wouldn’t be so cheeky as to present myself at reception and reel off my excuses. But I am desperate. I really need this job. And I really, really want it. This particular London auction house – Parsonson’s – is renowned for dealing in only the most famous and collectible pieces. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Okay, Eleanor. You can turn this around. Smile. Stand tall. Let’s do this.
My phone starts ringing, and I growl my frustration as I dive into my bag. My ex-boyfriend’s name on the screen adds to my already frazzled nerves. ‘Go away, David,’ I mutter, rejecting the call before turning off my phone. I said everything I had to say while he chased after me yanking his boxers on. Which was a basic fuck off. Hasn’t he got the message yet?
Throwing David out of my mind, I focus on the task at hand: getting myself a job. Removing my mac and straightening my shoulders, I push my way through the glass revolving door into the reception area. I immediately feel out of place. It’s clinical, with only a curved white desk that blends into the white floor and walls, and four white leather couches are positioned to form a square. It’s also silent, but my tentative footsteps, clicking loudly on the marble floor, soon break the quiet, drawing the attention of a pristine woman behind the desk.
She looks over her glasses at me and smiles, warming the chilly atmosphere. ‘Good morning,’ she greets, standing from her chair.
‘Hi.’ I surreptitiously pull my blouse into place, conscious that my attire is too drab, and this place is anything but. ‘I have an interview. I was told to ask for Shelley Peters.’
‘Ah, Mr Timms’s secretary. You are?’