Her Best Worst Mistake by Sarah Mayberry Read Free Book Online Page A

and threatening snow and she was
freezing her derriere off in the street outside the offices of
Whittaker, Malcolm and Venables.
    She checked her watch again.
    Where in the hell was he?
    She jiggled from one foot to the other, the heavy
weight of the bottle of Belgian peach schnapps in her shoulder bag
banging against her hip. Not for the first time she wondered what
she was doing, lurking out here in the dark, waiting for a man who
showed every indication of genuinely despising her.
    Not for the first time, she had no ready answer.
    The obvious reason was that she felt sorry for
Martin. She knew how much he loved Elizabeth, and she knew that
things were over between the two of them, which meant he was
probably feeling more than a little sorry for himself and perhaps
more than a little angry over the shitty hand he’d been dealt.
    She knew for a fact that he’d only landed back in the
country two days ago, and she’d made an educated guess that instead
of taking a few days off to recover from jet-lag and lick his
wounds, he would march straight into work like a good little
soldier. As though his heart wasn’t broken and he wasn’t miserable
and sad and lonely.
    Idiot.
    She blew on her hands again. A figure appeared in the
doorway of the very old, very genteel building where Elizabeth’s
grandfather and former-fiancé plied their trade. She tensed but as
he stepped out into the street she saw that he was too old to be
Martin.
    Although they probably patronized the same tailor,
judging by his stuffy attire.
    She looked up at the building,
eyeing the one window that was still illuminated. She imagined
Martin bent over some dusty legal tome, burying himself in
precedents and caveats and whatevers because he didn’t know how to
deal with his own feelings. He could be in there forever . For all she
knew, he might be the kind of tragic workaholic who slept on the
couch in his office rather than go home and be forced to face his
own life.
    She made a decision, crossing the street to stand
outside the front entrance of his building. Two minutes later, her
hopes were answered as a severely dressed woman exited through the
security door. Trying to look as though she knew exactly what she
was doing and where she was going, Violet caught the door before it
could close behind the woman and ducked into the foyer. The dry
warmth of central heating hit her, warming her cheeks, and she
unbuttoned her coat.
    Now there was only the small problem of working out
what floor Martin’s office might be on. She crossed to the elevator
and stared at the brass plaque. She knew that Martin worked in
insolvency, but it looked like there were two floors dedicated to
the joys of people going out of business. With the economy the way
it was, they were probably eyeing a third floor.
    She stepped into the lift, hitting the buttons for
both floors. She stared at the indicator and tried to ignore the
voice in the back of her head that was telling her this was a bad
idea.
    As she’d already acknowledged,
Martin hated her. He thought she was easy, spoiled and vacuous. Not
that he’d said any of those things to her face—although he had made that crack about
the Playboy catalogue. His contempt was in every glance he threw
her way, in every word he said to her.
    And yet here she was, a peace offering banging
against her hip.
    She must be mad.
    The lift pinged to a halt and she ducked her head
out. From what she could see, there wasn’t a single light on
throughout the whole floor. Onwards and upwards, then.
    The lift doors slid shut and she tapped her foot
nervously. Another ping and the doors opened again. She stuck her
head out. Ah. A light. Finally.
    She started up the corridor, her spiked heels digging
deeply into the plush carpet. She glanced into the darkened offices
as she passed, taking in the shiny wood and burnished leather.
Martin had done well for himself for a kid from the mean streets of
Hackney. She wondered if he ever took a moment to