Red After Dark (Blackwood Security #13) - Elise Noble Page 0,105

of sitting at the back was that we could get out first.

“You’re not the only one who thinks so. Did you see the outline of a hip flask in the vicar’s pocket?”

“No, really?”

“I almost asked if I could take a swig. Do women honestly like this stuff?”

“My wedding was awful. I wanted a small affair with close friends and family, but Piers insisted bigger was better, and by the time our mothers got involved, we had six hundred guests, photos in Hello! magazine, and a reception sponsored by Taittinger.”

“There are some situations where bigger is better, but I’d agree that a wedding isn’t one of them. What time does Priscilla’s reception start?”

“Four o’clock. She wanted time to take photos and change her outfit and get her hair and make-up redone first.”

“Are you okay to walk there in those shoes? Or do you want me to call a cab?”

“It’s only five minutes away, and I’ve had plenty of practice.”

Alaric offered me his arm, and we joined the throng trekking along the lane to my parents’ estate. Sadly, there wasn’t a handy pub we could nip into, and with the amount of rain we’d had yesterday, I couldn’t hide along a footpath either, not unless I wanted to ruin my new shoes. And I loved those shoes.

A friend of my mother’s fell into step beside us as we walked, and I was forced to explain my absence from the country club. From her incredulous harrumph, it seemed that having to travel for work didn’t pass muster as an excuse for missing the charity golf tournament. Did I mention how much I hated golf?

When we got to the house, the first thing I did was grab a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. The second thing I did was remember I wasn’t meant to be drinking and toss it into one of the many, many floral displays. Had Krys Baxter-Ragsdale gone home? I couldn’t hear sneezing.

“Why did you ditch the fizz?” Alaric asked. “Neither of us is driving.”

“You heard Piers earlier. I don’t want a repeat of last time.”

“Shame.”

“Everyone thinks you’re moonlighting as a gigolo. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Alaric snagged two more drinks and passed one to me. “A glass won’t hurt. It might even take the edge off. Come on…” He steered me towards the open French windows. “Let’s go outside. Most of the vultures are hanging out by the snacks.”

He was right—the terrace was quieter, even if it brought back memories of our previous shenanigans out there. My thighs clenched just from thinking about that evening.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I muttered.

“Do I care what people think of me? No, I only worry about the things that matter. And what matters is that I’ve got the prettiest girl at the party on my arm.”

Heat rose up my cheeks.

“But I need to apologise,” he continued. “My comment earlier was uncalled for, and I’m sorry.”

“What comment?”

“The one where I suggested paying for your services. I felt the way you stiffened.”

“Oh, no, no, it wasn’t because of you.”

“Then it was Piers? That jab you made about hookers being his bag? You caught him?”

I quickly shook my head. “Can we not discuss this? It’s mortifying, and you’re my boss.”

“We’re not at work today. This afternoon, I’m your friend above all else. If you want to vent, feel free.”

“Please, no.” I downed the Veuve Clicquot before I realised what I was doing. And if you’re wondering how I knew it was Veuve Clicquot, the banners draped over the ice buckets were a dead giveaway. “Have you ever had a sexual experience so mortifying you wished you could sink into the ground?”

“Sure. You want me to go first? A few years ago when I was in France, I met a girl at a music concert, and some privacy seemed like a good idea.”

“I’m not listening. It was a rhetorical question.”

I pressed my hands against my ears, but then just for good measure, I removed one for long enough to grab Alaric’s champagne and knocked that back too. And still he kept talking.

“So we meandered through the woods and found the perfect spot. Quiet, secluded, tucked away off the beaten track… And we got a little busy. Only to realise that nesting above our heads was a pair of ovenbirds, literally the only ones in the country, and what we thought was dense undergrowth was actually a cleverly disguised hide filled with twitchers. Some of them had cameras. Most of them had binoculars. One gent had a