Elle (Sample)

Chapter One

Getting ready for the event was painstaking now that Elle had met Dean. He was entirely unlike her usual clients, which begged the question: why did he even need her services? Judging by his suit and Rolex, he wasn't short of a few ££, but she was sure he had women lining up to be his date for free.

Elle had to remind herself that it wasn't her business and neither did she care. For the night she would be his date, pretending to be unaffected by the glitz and glamour, and then she'd return home with enough money to feed them for 2 months. Or to pay a couple very overdue bills.

As Dean had promised, he was waiting outside the hotel in a Mercedes at 8pm sharp. He'd greeted her by graciously holding the door open, looking more debonair than he had earlier. His short, dark hair was swept back with wax, and the tailor made suit he wore hugged him in all the right places, giving whisper of the muscles that lay beneath.

Elle fought to breathe steadily as she sat beside him in the car, not only overwhelmed at the sight and proximity of him but also the smell of his rich cologne filling the car. The driver merely acknowledged her with a nod of the head, before placing the privacy screen up.

"You look amazing," Dean said.

The Grecian style red gown she wore hugged her bust tightly, where Dean's eyes lingered for a second too long. The colour complimented her caramel skin. Around the middle, the flowy material bunched under a collection of silver rhinestones, draping down to the floor and flattering her every curve. The way he was looking at her was due only to the fact she'd be hanging off his arm for the night, Elle was sure. He had to give her a thorough check to make sure she fit the bill.

"Thank you," she said with a polite smile. "It might be an idea for us to run over our story on the journey there."

"Sure."

Her voice seemed to rouse Dean from whatever he was thinking. He cleared his throat and diverted his gaze through the window to the city streets.

"You're Dean Wallace, you work for a company called Investian, and were born in September of 1980. Your hobbies include watching films, fine dining, and keeping up to date on trends in the stock market. We met at the wedding of Julia and Ronald, mutual family friends, a month ago."

Dean nodded, pleased with how she'd remembered it all and how their backstory had rolled off her tongue.

"And you're Eleanor Smith. You work for your father, a real estate mogul, as an accountant. You share much the same interests as I, but with more of an appreciation for the outdoors. When we first met, I approached you first and you played hard to get."

Other than her first name, it was all a load of bullshit, and the idea that her father was a real estate mogul instead of a 6-feet-under-deadbeat was laughable. But both she and Dean figured it was better to create an alter ego.

"All sounds plausible enough to me," Elle said, her accent a little more 'proper' as she prepared to put on a show. "Let's just hope none of your friends need an accountant."

"Not friends, but colleagues. And I'm sure they won't. If they do, I'll sweep you away and make the excuse of wanting you to myself," he said, licking his lips lasciviously.

It was all part of the act, Elle knew – he had to pretend, just like she, that there was a chemistry between them. But she couldn't help watching the trail of moisture his tongue left behind, and the urge to move closer to him was both sudden and unprofessional.

As they left the Mercedes arm in arm, they were swept up in a crowd entering the building. It was grand and old with succinct modern touches, as were most things in Central London. The brunt of the event was being held in an upstairs ballroom, and the large entry hall was filled with people accepting welcome drinks as they walked in.

A queue built up before the lifts, with attendees trying to avoid the chaos of the stairs. With Elle on his arm, Dean walked to the very front of the queue, no one blinking an eye as he pushed in front and took the next lift.

If she hadn't been earning a decent amount of money that night, Elle would have pulled him up. There was nothing more quintessentially British than a queue, and you respected that. The way he'd steamrolled past his colleagues, with them not surprised by his behaviour, had a lot to say about his usual behaviour. Instead, she simply smiled and climbed into the small space with him, the other guests reluctant to get in with them.

They were only going up 2 floors, but Elle hated lifts. As it began to ascend, nausea bit at the lining of her stomach and her hands were covered in a fine layer of sweat. Discomfort was plain across her features despite her attempts at smiling.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked, brow furrowed in concern.

As she struggled to voice her fear, the lift gave a sickening lurch downwards and the lights flickered. Elle couldn't repress the scream that escaped her throat, and Dean grabbed hold of her arm. Whether to shut her up or provide her with a little support, she didn't know. Either way she was grateful for the gesture.

With one hand gripping her upper arm, Dean's other hand bashed at the flashing keys of the control panel. They'd came to a stop all together, the dial on the lift flittering between the Ground and 1st floor.

"Fuck," Dean cursed, pressing the emergency call button.

They were stuck.