Page 15 of Third Time’s a Charm

Days in which I’ve tried to somehow uncouple the juicy payout Mackelden has written into his contract. Because whatever way it goes, there’s no way he deserves a golden handshake. All I need to do is convince the London office. Who are frankly culpable, given their years of benign neglect.

Speaking of the London office, it’s no mistake I’ve neglected to mention I’m going on a road trip with Louise. I don’t want them to get wind of it until I’m one hundred percent confident I can make her plan work.

It’s fortunate that Tate isn’t generally inclined to give the Australian office a second thought.

As far as he’s concerned, he’s dispatched me to do a job, and he assumes, based on my track record of reliability and efficiency, that the job will get done.

Which makes it odd that I receive a very pointed email the morning after agreeing to the road trip. It reminds me, in very bald language, that I’ve signed an NDA and any breaking of confidence will be met not only with instant dismissal, but with legal action.

It could just be coincidence, but there’s always an agenda with Tate and it’s best to be on guard.

I respond with assurances that I’m more than aware of my obligations. Then shoot off a text to Edward to be on the alert for whispers. It’s lucky for me Edward missed his calling by not joining MI5.

What I’m still waiting for is Mackelden’s HR file. Edward has suspicions the file he was given isn’t the whole story, and I trust his instincts completely. It may take him a few days, but he’ll get to the bottom of why there is so little detail in Mackelden’s record. And I have a hunch it will be interesting reading.

By the time I’m throwing my suitcase into the boot of my new company-supplied BMW four-wheel drive and plugging Louise’s address into the GPS on the morning of our road trip, I’m confident what I find in the next few days will confirm my belief I can save the business.

What I’m not confident about is coming out of it without having crossed a line with Louise.

Chapter Nine

Louise

Last night I packed and repacked my bag half a dozen times. I went from a medium suitcase to large, down to a small and back to a medium again.

It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.

I do this kind of trip several times a year, and I have a standard wardrobe that I can pack in five minutes with my eyes closed. Smart jeans. Linen shirts and T-shirts. Business casual blazers. Sturdy boots. And a quality pair of gumboots for walking the vineyards.

But this time, I’m second-guessing myself up the wahzoo. Will he think this is professional enough? Is this too casual? Perhaps I should have bought new boots. Or jeans. Are my jeans too faded? Too tight? Putting in dresses and a pair of heels, for crying out loud. All because Mr Jasper Spencer-Jones and his bespoke three-piece suits will be coming along on this trip.

I’ve told him jeans are the most appropriate wardrobe, but so far, I’ve seen no evidence he owns anything but the suits. The closest he’s come to letting go is loosening his tie and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt after five o’clock.

I haven’t spent a lot of time wondering how he gets such muscled forearms, or such a tight bum for that matter, while dressed in a suit. I also haven’t spent a lot of time wondering what the rest of his arms, or his legs, or his abs look like. Even though, every now and then, there’s a glimpse of a tight muscle through the finest of fabrics.

When it first got out that I might be going on a trip with Jasper, there wasn’t a woman in the office who didn’t, at some point, suggest how lucky I was to be going away with him. Even Vivian, John’s executive assistant, commented on what a fine sight Jasper is first thing in the morning. I don’t know who she thinks she’s kidding. He’s a fine sight any time of day. And night, I suspect.

But as the days passed, Jasper’s particular brand of icy aloofness became a fast-moving glacier, and the comments turned from envy to sympathy.

There’s only a hint of sunlight on the horizon, but I’m already at the curb with my suitcase and laptop bag when a shiny, dark blue BMW X Series pulls up and a version of Jasper Spencer-Jones I don’t recognise climbs out into the glow of the streetlight.

I offered to drive in my car, but the look he gave me would’ve frozen lava. I was a little offended at the time, but seeing the luxe car the company has leased for him I have to admit it will be much more comfortable than making the trip in my little hatchback. Cute as it is. Although I’ll be keeping the thought to myself.

“Good morning, Louise.”

I’m speechless. If he wasn’t wearing a suit, I had fully expected he’d be kitted out from head to toe in R. M. Williams that looked like all the tags had just been cut off. But he’s wearing jeans that are worn and faded in all the right places and a white T-shirt that clings to the muscles in his forearms with just the right amount of tenacity. Gone are the expensive, polished loafers he wears at work, replaced with what look like proper riding boots, worn and well loved, but not dilapidated. Have I just seen the first hint that under his forbidding exterior is an actual human?

I’m too shocked to even attempt to hide the way my eyes run down, up, and then down again.

“I assume I interpreted the dress code correctly?” He holds his arms out, face as immovable as an Easter Island statue, as always. His question surprises me. I’d never have picked Jasper for someone who gives a toss about what people think. He’s too self-assured and confident—some would say arrogant—for that.

“Er, um. Yes. I mean, you’re fine. The outfit. I mean. The outfit’s fine,” I babble. Although, it’s also true that he’s fine. Very, very fine.

With what could be a grimace, or at a stretch a suppressed smile—actually, no I was right the first time, it was a grimace—he swings my suitcase into the rear of the car and climbs back into the driver’s seat.

The thunk of his door closing jerks me from my trance, and I slide my laptop bag onto the back seat before climbing into the plush leather passenger seat. I take a deep breath of the wonderful new car smell and buckle up.

Jasper taps the GPS to bring up our destination, drawing my gaze to his long, elegant fingers.