Page 5 of The Surrender (Arlington Hall #2)

Sunday morning is a flurry of goodbyes and kisses, tears and laughs. I didn’t sleep a wink, waiting for my door to be hammered down, and I was forced to put my mobile on silent after I finally braved getting out of the shower.

Everyone checks out and leaves, but I volunteer to hang around and wait for the chef to begin his shift so we can try to find out where he’s hidden the cake stand.

Clark’s put a two-hundred-pound deposit on it, and he wants it back.

Plus, I don’t want to go to Abbie’s just yet.

I’m scared Jude will be there. Waiting to bend and break me again.

Or maybe Nick will be there, ready to enhance this never-ending guilt.

Fucking hell.

In my Lululemon leggings, cropped sweater, and flip-flops—hair piled up, fuck you very much, Jude Harrison—I plonk myself in an armchair in the corner of Café Royal’s vast reception area and relax back, happy to take the opportunity to be alone somewhere no one can find me.

I reach for the paper on the table in front of me.

The Financial Times . Perfect. It makes a change from reading it digitally.

Flipping it open, I start scanning the articles for ones of interest, settling on the hostile takeover of the international freight company XYZ.

It doesn’t feature in my portfolio, but I know it does Gary’s.

I check the date on the paper. Yesterday.

Gary would have seen it, right? Just the mere fact I ask myself has me pulling my phone out and calling him.

He’s at Windermere this weekend, so chances are he hasn’t.

It rings and rings before sending me to his voicemail.

“Hey,” I say, leaning forward and slipping the paper onto the rich wooden table.

“I just read about the XYZ takeover and wanted to make sure you’d seen the article in the Financial Times yesterday.

Call me.” I hang up and stand when I see Rachel and Clark’s wedding planner, Martina, appear across the lobby.

She spots me and smiles, floating towards me, only her legs seeming to move as she walks. “Amelia, I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting. We found the stand!”

“Oh, that’s great.”

She motions for me to follow. “Chef put it in the pantry cupboard out of the way and neglected to tell me before he went off shift. I feel awful. The sous-chef stacked the tiers directly on top of each other and they sank under the weight!”

“I’m sure they’ll get over it,” I assure her. “It’s already been eaten anyway.”

She laughs, loud and over the top. “Sure, sure.”

We pass through the lobby, and Martina leads me up the first flight of marble steps. “It’s this way.”

“To the kitchen?” I ask.

“Yes.” She flashes me a toothy smile and leads me down a corridor, stopping at a door. “Here.” She opens it, and the very second I step inside and figure out we’re in no kitchen, the door closes behind me, making me jump. And the wedding planner isn’t in the room with me.

Jude is.

“I told you I dared,” he says, relaxed in the leather club chair by the window that looks out over Piccadilly Circus. Waiting for me. His expression is cool. The giant illuminated billboard glows behind him.

I become a statue, my mind failing me. I don’t leave, I don’t speak. But I shake like a fucking leaf. He’s in the same clothes, looks even more tired, but tranquil at the same time. As if he’s at peace with where we’re at.

“What are you doing here?” I ask like a fool, unlocking my eyes from his and scanning the room. It’s a suite, a beautiful suite. Did he stay here last night?

“We need to talk.” He slowly rises, cautiously, as if he’s preparing for me to walk out.

“I’ve nothing to say to you.”

“Your body did a lot of talking last night when you fucked me on the back seat of the Rolls-Royce.”

My jaw clenches. “Fuck off, Jude.”

Growling under his breath, he advances towards me.

“Would love to.” He slips a hand around my waist, his palm sliding across my bare midriff onto my lower back, and he hauls my body into his.

Sheer contact makes my insides furl. Then his breath is on my face, his lashes tickling mine when he blinks. “But I can’t.”

“Try harder,” I whisper.

He shakes his head mildly. “How sore are you after yesterday?”

My hands twitch by my sides, lifting and lowering, wanting to reach for his shoulders but not. “I’m not doing this.”

“You said that last night too. Then you climbed onto my lap”—he moves his mouth to my ear—“sank onto my big, begging cock, and fucked me hard.”

What the hell is he saying? I told him only days ago that I was falling for him, and now he’s treating me like a bit of arse?

And he expects my compliance? I wince at my thoughts.

I’ve always found it hard to say no to him.

Even now, when I hate him, I’m shaking with the effort to not kiss him.

My move last night in the Rolls-Royce was pure frustration. Anger.

A revenge fuck.

“No.” I push the word past my lips and pull away, fighting the magnet.

“Yes,” he retorts, dragging me back.

“No.” I shove his hands away from my body.

He hauls me into him again. “Yes.”

“No!” Shaking him off, I move back, firm in my voice, if not my stance. “Don’t think you can win me over with a bit of dirty talk and forcefulness. We’re done, Jude. I’m done. Getting involved with you was the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”

Anger is radiating from him quickly, flashing in his dark eyes, pulsing in his throat. “Why do you constantly fucking lie to yourself, Amelia? Talk yourself in circles, try to convince everyone you’re some impenetrable ice queen whose best assets are her laser focus and drive?”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” I pivot, my fists balling. Jude Harrison is no good for me, just as I always suspected, and I fucking hate that I gave him the opportunity to prove me right. “We’re done,” I reiterate, full of grit, taking the handle and hauling the door open. “Have a nice life.”

“Fuck, you’re infuriating.”

I feel his arm loop around my waist, and my feet are suddenly off the floor, the door shutting on a slam. “What are you doing?”

“You’re not walking away from me.”

“Wrong!” I wrestle my way out of his hold, my hair coming loose and falling all over my face. “I never want to see you again—what don’t you understand about that?”

“What don’t I understand?” he yells. “I don’t understand you , Amelia!”

“You don’t fucking need to, because we’re—”

His lips are suddenly on mine, his tongue violently seeking entry, the backs of my legs pushed up against a cabinet.

For a split second, when I feel the heat of his body touching mine, his mouth ravaging me, I forget myself, opening up, groaning.

Fuck, what am I doing? “No!” I shove him away, reaching for the cabinet to steady myself, but I miss the edge, swiping my hand through a collection of neatly lined-up champagne flutes.

“Shit.” They scatter and smash across the wooden surface, the sound echoing around the suite, and my unstable form becomes a bit more unbalanced.

My hand meets the wood, and a sharp pain has me hissing and retracting, the warm sensation of blood instantly trickling down my fingers, making me inhale.

“Fuck!” I curse, checking my hand, but I’m unable to see the damage through the blood.

“Amelia.”

“Don’t,” I warn, grabbing a serviette from the cabinet and holding it to my palm. I grit my teeth. The temporary swab lasts a few seconds before it starts disintegrating, soaked. “God damn it.”

Jude moves in. “Don’t you dare fucking argue with me.

” He walks me to a chair and sits me down, bending his body over mine so I’m forced to sit back.

“Don’t move.” He disappears for a few moments, then returns with a facecloth and removes his suit jacket, throwing it aside and pulling a chair closer.

He lowers and takes my hand, checking the damage.

I’m helpless, bleeding all over the place, in pain, but that’s not the reason tears start to form. Jude peeks up at me, and I look away, sniffing discreetly.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, pressing the towel to my palm.

“I’ll be fine.” I stand abruptly, holding the facecloth in place, and edge past him quickly, leaving the suite.

“Amelia, for the love of God.”

I ignore him and make my way down to the lobby to get my bags, no hands free to wipe my eyes while I keep my makeshift swab in place.

“Come on, Amelia, you need medical attention,” Jude says, chasing me down the sweeping marble stairs.

Looking at the facecloth, I wince when I see it’s become sodden. “Shit.” Fat drops of blood start to leak, hitting the marble floor and splashing. I hurry my pace through to the lobby, bleeding everywhere.

“Amelia, stop.” Jude lands in front of me and grabs my hand, holding it up as he scans the lobby.

“I need a first-aider over here,” he yells, getting the attention of everyone floating around.

Then he leads me to a chair and forces me to sit, perching on the coffee table before it.

“If you move, you’re in big trouble, do you hear me? ”

He concentrates as he peels the soaked material away, and the moment he winces, I know he’s right. I need medical attention. And maybe a mental assessment, because my guard is slowly lowering.

Jude glances up and meets my glazed eyes, and my heart softens when he breathes out and moves closer. “Don’t,” I whisper, begging him. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

Hurt me. “Don’t be worried and all sensitive.”

“I am worried.” Slipping his hand onto my nape, he directs my face into his chest, kissing the top of my head repeatedly as he holds me close.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so fucking sorry, Amelia.

” The feel of his chest expanding and retracting, warm and hard, eases me.

It defies everything, but I relax. “It’ll be okay. I’ve got you.”