Page 25 of Worth Every Moment (Hawkston Billionaires #4)

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“ Y eah, I’ll be there asap,” I bark into the phone. “I’m in midtown. Wimpole Street. I’ll be in the office in twenty minutes.”

“Hurry the fuck up,” Nico replies.

Arse . I am never late to work. I hang up without responding and stare out the car window as we cruise through town.

I should have been in the office half an hour ago, but after meeting Dad for lunch, I didn’t fucking feel like it.

On top of that, the moment I walked out of that restaurant, everything that’s happened with Erica hit me like a shit ton of bricks.

Since the night she kicked me out of her flat, I’ve seen her once.

Once . Where she let me go down on her and then screamed at me and ran away.

Maybe this time, it’s over.

Maybe I’ve lost her.

I should never have tasted her.

Fuck it. Having my head between Erica’s legs, her clit on my tongue, her taste in my mouth, is the highlight of my life.

I don’t regret it for a second. Besides, I’ll likely lose her anyway, given how all this stuff with Dad and Diana is playing out.

As much as I’d like to say I’m confident that I can outplay my father, I don’t know if I can.

I miss her. I miss Erica fucking Lefroy with an ache that gnaws at my heart.

After lunch, I decided enough was enough, and instead of going to the office, I got my driver to take me to Vauxhall, where we sat outside her building for forty-five minutes while I wondered whether or not to get out of the car.

She could have contacted me. She could have called and apologised. But she never did. Maybe it doesn’t bother her that we’re not talking.

Maybe she doesn’t care.

I clench a fist and press it to my lips, closing my eyes as a blistering pain spreads through me.

In the end, I got out of the car, strode into the lobby, and asked for her, only to be told that Miss Lefroy wasn’t there. So here I am, on my way to the office.

“Sir, there’s a jam ahead. I’m going to take a turn down Harley Street,” comes the driver’s voice, bringing me back to the present.

“Sure.” I stare out the window, watching the passersby going about their day. But then I catch sight of a disturbance on the pavement outside one of the Harley Street surgeries. People appear to be arguing. I twist in my seat as we drive by, trying to get a better look. Is that... Erica ?

She’s yelling at someone. An older woman who looks a lot like her.

That’s got to be her mother. I recognise her from the fashion shows.

Erica is flapping a piece of paper in her direction.

Is she… crying? The older woman yells something, leaving a distressed-looking Erica in the middle of the pavement.

“Pull over,” I instruct the driver.

“Sir, I can’t park here.”

“I don’t give a shit. Fucking pull over. Now.”

The driver nods at me in the rearview mirror and the car cruises to the side of the road. It’s an obnoxious place to park, but I don’t give a fuck.

I leap out of the car, rushing back down the pavement to where I’m sure I saw Erica.

I dodge through passersby, weaving my way towards her.

There are tears streaming down her face.

I’ve never seen her look like this. Harassed.

Distraught. Out of her fucking mind, worse than when we fought in the gallery.

That she’d let it happen in public is even more concerning. What the hell just happened?

People are slowing down to stare at her, not only because she’s clearly in distress, but because it’s Erica Lefroy in distress.

Through the crowd, her eyes latch onto mine.

Her footing stumbles as recognition, panic, and relief flood over her features. But then she stiffens, half turning away like she means to run from me.

A few strides takes me to her, and I grip her shoulder.

She turns, her wide, dark eyes meeting mine, sharing the depth of her desperation in an instant.

I don't need her to tell me she needs me.

I can read it on her face. I pull her towards me and she collapses against my chest, shaking fingers gripping my shirt.

“Shit, Erica,” I mutter against her hair. “What happened?”

People are calling out her name, staring at us. Erica pulls away, but her fingers remain twisted in my shirt, eyes flashing panic as she realises the crowd is closing in.

“I have the car.” I nod where the vehicle is still idling, hazard lights flashing. “Come with me.”

She gives my shirt a gentle tug. “Who… who’s in the car?” Her voice breaks.

What? “No one. The driver.”

“No other women?”

Shit. If it were anyone else, the question would be a joke, and I’d crack a joke in response.

But this isn’t a joke, not least because it’s Erica and the last time I saw her she was screaming at me in the gallery, and now she’s standing here in the street with tears running down her face, looking at me like I caused them.

Nothing about this is funny, and the tension is so thick and cold that you could crack it like ice.

At the sight of her, something topples inside me, pieces scattering like a house of cards.

She might have hurt me, but I hurt her too. Badly .

Before I can answer, someone yells her name and we both look up to find multiple mobile phones pointed in our direction. A Vespa draws up alongside us, and the guy on the back hops off, equipped with a great big fuck off camera. I didn’t even know they did that anymore. Proper 90s-style paparazzi.

“Erica! Give us a smile,” he calls. Wrenching out of my arms, she turns to him, mascara streaking down her face as he points the camera and clicks. She stalks towards him, looking like she’s going to murder him. And if she does, the whole thing will be caught on camera. I can’t let her do this.

I catch up to her in a couple of steps, tucking her behind me in one swift move.

“Mate, you’re blocking Lefroy,” the photographer says, lowering the camera. I step closer and put my hand over the lens. “Oi!” he yells, trying to snatch it away, but I wrap my other hand around the body of the camera. He’s a little guy, and he won’t be able to fight me for it.

“Delete the photos and get back on your fucking bike right now, and you can keep the camera,” I growl.

“Fuck off, mate. This camera’s worth thousands, and the photographs—”

I yank the camera from his grasp and smash it to the ground. “Wrong choice.” I offer him a compensatory mock grimace.

He squeaks like a mouse having its entrails ripped out, whimpering over the shattered camera as he sinks to the ground to pick up the pieces.

I scoop it up before he can, flipping it around until I find the memory card, which I slide out and put in my pocket.

I hand him back the ruined camera and he cradles it like treasure.

I’m about to walk away, but because I don’t want to be a total dick about it, and the guy looks like he’s about to weep, I undo my watch and slip it off my wrist, holding it out to him. “Here.”

He stares up at me, confused, and I shake the watch at him, but he still doesn’t take it, so I bend down and tuck it into the pocket on the front of his shirt, and tap it. “It’s Cartier. This is your best work day this year. Now, fuck off.”

I straighten to find people staring and filming me, while Erica still stands behind me. I can’t very well smash every phone on Harley Street, so I put my arm around her, using my body to shield her from everyone.

I pull her close and whisper, “Get in the car. I’ll take you wherever you need to go. There are no other women in there, I swear.”

She relaxes and allows me to usher her to the waiting Bentley. I open the back door, waiting for her to get in before closing it and moving around to the other side to get in myself.

Inside the car, the sound of people calling Erica’s name is muted, and the air is cool.

“Go,” I instruct the driver.

“Where to?” he asks.

I look at Erica. “Where do you want to go?”

She glances at me through thick lashes, and her chin trembles like she’s on the cusp of breaking down. Fuck . She shakes her head like she has no idea.

People are crowding the car, leaning in at the darkened windows. I’ve never been so glad for the safety glass in my life. Muffled calls of ‘ Erica, Erica ,’ meet my ears.

We can’t fucking sit here while she works out what she needs.

“Just keep moving.” At my command, the driver shifts into the lane and I click the partition to separate us from him.

When we’re alone, I turn to her. “What happened?”

She closes her eyes, pressing the knuckles of one hand to her lips as if to stop them quivering. She says nothing, but I sense that it’s not that she doesn’t want to tell me, but rather that she doesn’t trust herself to speak without breaking.

She passes me the tabloid paper she’s clutching, folded open to an article entitled, Is Erica Lefroy the world’s least sexy supermodel?

I glance over it.

Rumour has it that Erica Lefroy, Britain’s top model and reputed Ice Queen, is looking to audition for the role of Vanessa Darkmoore alongside Hollywood heartthrob Michael Drayton in the upcoming blockbuster, Taming the Beast, based on the multi-million-copy bestselling book by Abigail Enwright.

It remains to be seen whether Lefroy can hold her own alongside Michael, who was nominated for an Oscar last year for his performance in Downtown Meat Market.

Lefroy might have a perfect face that fits on the Golden Ratio mask, but can we really imagine the woman who never smiles, with a figure like an overgrown adolescent boy and breasts so tiny they might as well be inverted, playing the role of the tortured sex bomb Vanessa, who captured the hearts of millions of readers worldwide?