Once A Bad Girl
Authors: Jane O'Reilly
Jane O’Reilly
A bit of glitz, a bit of glam, a bit of bargaining…and a wardrobe malfunction. In the style of Victoria Dahl, a fun, flirty contemporary romance that explores how far one woman will go to save her family’s business – and the one man that stands in her way
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It seems like a dream come true when whispers of a reclusive film star fallen on hard times meets Lottie Spencer’s ears. Desperate to save her family’s auction house, she knows that Hollywood memorabilia could be the answer to her prayers. Unfortunately, she’s about to find out that this client comes with strings attached – an overprotective son who will do anything to shield his mother from the prying eyes of the press. But Lottie is sure she can handle it.
If only being around a bad boy didn’t make it so hard to be good…
Jane O’Reilly started writing as an antidote to kids’ TV when her youngest child was a baby. Her first novel was set in her old school and involved a ghost and lots of death. It’s unpublished, which is probably for the best. Then she discovered contemporary romance, and that, as they say, was that. She lives near London with her husband and two children. You can find her at
www.janeoreilly.com
and on Twitter @janeoreilly.
I would like to thank the Romantic Novelists’ Association, and the anonymous reader who read and loved
Once a Bad Girl
when it made its way through the New Writers’ Scheme—you said it would be published, and you were right. I would also like to thank my writing partners Julia, Jessica and Maggie who have been with me through many bad manuscripts and rejections, Julie Cohen for her fantastic writing courses, and everyone else who has helped me along the way.
For Patrick
Also Available From Escape Publishing…
‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think this is a fake.’ Lottie tipped the art-deco bronze upside down and picked at the layer of greasy dirt on the marble base with her nail. She angled her wobbly desk light closer. ‘What do you think, Rach?’
‘I think you ought to stop manhandling that naked woman and look at this naked man.’
Glancing over her shoulder, Lottie caught sight of a black-and-white photo of a male model wearing nothing but a towel and a scowl. She grinned. ‘No. Eyes are too close together.’
Rachel stretched out in her chair and flicked to the next page of
Guilty Pleasures
magazine, an irresistible weekly dose of all things celebrity that neither of them could get enough of. ‘Can’t say I was looking at his eyes.’ She held out a manicured hand. ‘Pass it over.’
Lottie kicked her creaky chair over to the other side of her tiny basement office, held out the statuette and held her breath. ‘If it is a fake, it’s the third one this month. The auction house can’t go on like this. All we’re pulling in is third-rate fakes and the junk from Great Aunt Vera’s attic. We haven’t had a big-ticket item in months. Every time I look at the accounts I could scream.’
‘You worry too much,’ Rachel informed her, as she checked the base with an expert eye.
She rubbed at a smudge on the metal then dumped the figure on the floor by her bare feet. ‘You need to get your priorities straight. How about this one?’ She jabbed at another photo in her magazine. ‘Look. He plays rugby for England, and his girlfriend just dumped him. He’s probably crying into his beer right now, wishing the right woman would walk into his life and mend his broken heart.’
Lottie leaned in and checked out the man in question. He had a certain muscular-thighed charm, she had to admit, but it made no difference. When it came to the opposite sex, her judgement was utterly unreliable, and the auction house was too important to risk making another mistake like her last boyfriend. ‘No. I’d prefer a man who has all his own teeth.’ Or failing that, one who wasn’t sleeping with her just so he could find out exactly which heirlooms his aged mother was trying to sell.
‘Teeth, schmeeth.’ Rachel waved a dismissive hand, then picked up her coffee. ‘I get that you’re married to this place, Lottie, but there’s nothing wrong with a little window shopping. When was the last time you took a day off? Had a night out?’
‘I’ll window shop later.’ Much later. As the youngest and only surviving Spencer child, the responsibility for the auction house weighed heavily on her, but she didn’t mind. It was right that it should, even if it didn’t leave much time or energy for anything else. ‘Right now, I’ve got to get this lot polished and catalogued. The owner wants it in the sale on Saturday.’
‘The owner wants to dump it in the nearest skip.’
Lottie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, then angled her friend a pleading look. ‘You reckon it is a fake?’
Rachel nodded. With her long red hair and short red dress, she could have been stalking across the cover of Vogue, but instead spent her time neck deep in antiques and loving it. If it was worth knowing, Rachel knew it, and Lottie trusted her implicitly. ‘Fake as the boobs of a footballer’s wife. Late repro, and not even a good one. It’s worth maybe 50 quid. On a good day.’
Her insides setting like concrete, Lottie stared hard at the photo hung on the wall above her desk, at the bright-eyed, dark-haired boy and girl stood side by side on the beach, wearing hired wetsuits and matching grins. She and David had been 16 and 13 when that was taken, so sure of themselves, so cocky. They’d learned the hard way that they weren’t invincible.
Gritting her teeth, Lottie let her gaze slide to the phone that sat on the corner of her desk. ‘I’ll have to ring the owner, let him know. Honestly, you’d think after all these years my dad would be better at spotting them.’
‘So let him deal with it. It’s his name over the door, he’s the one who brought it in.’
Lottie rubbed her hands over her face. ‘David could always tell. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense or something.’ And if her brother was still alive, they wouldn’t be in this mess. ‘I wish I had half his talent.’
‘You’ve got plenty of talent.’
‘Talent for screwing up, you mean.’
‘There’s no point dwelling on the past, Lottie. You can’t change it.’ Rachel sat forwards, her hazel eyes sparking with concern. ‘You need a break from this place.’
‘I’m fine,’ Lottie told her firmly. ‘Just a little stressed, that’s all.’ Eighteen months ago, her dad wouldn’t have given the bronze a second glance. Now he was letting all sorts of things slip onto the sales floor. It was almost as if he didn’t care, and that worried her.
‘Even more reason to get out of the office,’ Rachel said. ‘How about we take the afternoon off, go for a stroll down by the river and see what we can pick up. I fancy something early 20s and Spanish.’
Lottie shook her head. ‘You’re shameless, you know that?’ A tiny pang of envy caught her off guard, but she crushed it. ‘Anyway,’ she said, sticking out her chin, ‘I went out with a man last week.’
‘Who?’
‘Barry,’ Lottie replied, sliding her gaze sideways. ‘We went out for lunch.’
Rachel rolled her eyes and made a retching sound. ‘Lunch with Barry is not a date, Lottie. In some countries, they’d call it torture and use it to force criminals to confess to heinous crimes. Please tell me you didn’t let him kiss you, otherwise I’ll have to go and be sick on your behalf.’
‘God, no. It was strictly a working lunch.’
‘Did Barry know that?’
‘Possibly not,’ Lottie admitted. It had been awful and then some, but she didn’t want to let Rachel know how desperate the situation at the auction house was. She hadn’t told Rachel yet, but her job was next in the firing line. It was hard to pretend things weren’t bad when she was reduced to lunch with someone she couldn’t stand simply because he worked at a rival business. ‘I did manage to get some interesting information out of him though.’
‘Without kissing? You go, girl! So what did you find out? That he’s really an alien from Planet Slimeball?’
Lottie pulled the elastic from her hair, then scooped it back into a low ponytail and retied it. ‘Ha. No, better than that.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Apparently, a Hollywood actress has been in touch with them. There’s a big sale on the cards.’
Rachel’s eyes went huge, and she wrapped her fingers tightly round the arms of her chair. ‘Seriously? Did you get a name?’
Lottie nodded, feeling the same tingling rush of excitement that had made her spill her drink all down Barry’s trouser leg. ‘Marlene Blakemore.’
There was a moment of hushed silence, followed by a low whistle.
‘Exactly,’ Lottie said, her chest tight. ‘Imagine if we could get her to sell through Spencer’s instead. She’s so famous, Rach. Just think about the stuff she must have tucked away. How often do Oscar-winning actresses go to auction houses to sell instead of buy?’
‘But no-one has seen her in what, 15 years? Not since her husband walked out, remember that? For all we know, she’s a modern-day Miss Havisham, stalking through her mansion in her couture and diamonds.’ Rachel lifted her hands, wiggled her fingers and made ghoulish noises. They stared at each other for a minute, horrified, then the giggles infected them both.
‘What you need,’ Rachel continued, wiping her eyes, ‘is a great big hunk of a man with biceps like boulders and legs like tree trunks who will lay himself on the line and protect you as you sprint through the rooms, grabbing anything that looks vaguely saleable.’
‘And where am I supposed to find one of those? Hunks R Us?’
‘Look,’ Rachel replied, turning back to
Guilty Pleasures
and flicking through so fast the pages ripped at the edge. She held it up.
A grainy snapshot showed a man lolling back on a sun lounger, wearing tropical shorts and a baggy t-shirt. Dark glasses obscured his face. ‘Who is that?’
‘Read the caption,’ Rachel ordered her. ‘And then tell me he’s not exactly what you need.’
Taking the magazine, Lottie held it closer and scanned the snippet. Nightclub owner Josh Blakemore, 28, is currently in London as work gets underway on his latest club, and will be attending the Love London conference. This sexy son of a movie star is apparently single at the moment. Get in the queue ladies!
‘That conference is this afternoon.’ Lottie couldn’t believe it. This was it. This was her way in. She stared at Rachel, a crazy idea forming in her head. She couldn’t quite see the boulder biceps or tree-trunk legs, but she didn’t need those anyway. ‘Yes,’ she said, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘He’s perfect!’
Why had he left Miami and white sand and palm trees for this? Pulling in a breath, Josh swirled the iced water in his tumbler and tried to get interested in the conversation the two men next to him were having. He’d been locked in the vast conference room, a futuristic prison of tinted glass and polished steel, for the past two hours. He’d mingled, chatted, laughed when he was supposed to, and now he wanted nothing more than to get out of here, get out of his suit and race his bike across Regent’s Park until his muscles screamed.
Outside, the hot August sunshine bounced off the River Thames, and he wanted to be out in it as it scorched the pavement and burned the tourists. But with a new club due to open in Mayfair in a month, he couldn’t afford to put anyone’s nose out of joint. He’d sunk a good chunk of cash into it, had a lot of staff depending on him, and competition for high-end nightclubs was tough. Pull in the right celebrities and he’d be laughing. Annoy the wrong people here, and he could find his licence pulled. Or worse.
And then there was the girl.
Something about her had set his senses on high alert the second she’d walked in, clutching her bag in a death grip, wobbling on super high heels. Something about her was off. She didn’t belong here, didn’t fit in. The staff had made no attempt to throw her out, so clearly her presence was legitimate, but that didn’t stop his instincts from telling him she was trouble.