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The Party Starts at Midnight
Lucy King

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEDICATION

To my wonderful readers, without whom I couldn’t do a job I love.

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

DEDICATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

AS THE LIFT DOORS opened with an expensively soft swoosh, Abby gave her head a quick shake to dispel the ear-popping dizziness caused by the thirty-floors-in-three-seconds ascension, and stepped into the hall of the penthouse suite of London’s newest South Bank hotel.

‘Hello?’ she called, her voice ringing out weirdly loudly in the silence of the apartment. And then, after a moment during which there was no answer, she tried again. ‘Mr Cartwright? … Leo? … Anyone? ‘

But there was still no reply.

Frowning slightly, she headed down the hall, barely noticing the thick cream carpet her heels were sinking into or the cool sophistication of the dove-grey walls that stretched out either side of her, and came upon the sitting room. A quick scan showed it to be huge and beautifully furnished but disappointingly empty, as, she subsequently discovered, were the kitchen, laundry room, library, cinema, gym and study.

If she hadn’t been on a mission to locate the man allegedly holed up within and remind him about the party in full swing downstairs—the party he was supposed to be attending but wasn’t—Abby might have been blown away by the sheer scale and luxury of the place.

She might have ditched her precious clipboard and marvelled at the spectacular view of London at night, all lit up like the enormous Christmas tree that sat in the lobby downstairs, and showcased by the acres of window. She might have oohed and aahed over the gorgeous chrome-and-crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling and cast subtle light over the antiques, and then thrown herself onto one of the three plush, charcoal velvet-covered sofas with a sigh of pleasure.

She might have lingeringly run her fingers along the gleaming granite work surfaces in the kitchen, had a quick go on one of the many machines in the state-of-the-art gym or wondered about the nearly empty bottle of whisky that sat on the desk in the study and the glass that lay on its side on a messy pile of faintly stained papers beside it.

As it was, she didn’t have either the time or the inclination to gawp, cop a feel or wonder about the possible evidence of a drinking session because the sumptuousness of his home wasn’t important right now. What was important was that Leo Cartwright was meant to be downstairs and she was here to fetch him.

If only she could find him.

Still in the study Abby put down her clipboard, and, out of habit, picked up the glass and put it on a coaster she saw peeping out from beneath a book. Then shuffled the papers into a neat pile.

She had to admit that despite Jake’s assurance that his brother was definitely up here, the silence and general air of absence didn’t bode particularly well.

And OK, so there was still the bedroom/bathroom half of the flat that she hadn’t searched, but there was no way she was heading in that direction. It was bad enough that she was in Leo’s flat uninvited in the first place, and, even though Jake had said he’d take full responsibility for any outcome, she absolutely drew the line at scouring the bedrooms without some kind of authorisation at least.

Perching on the edge of the desk, she took her phone out of the discreet little pouch sewn into the inside of her belt and scrolled down until she came to Jake’s number. She hit the dial button, waited for a second and then, when he picked up, said, ‘Jake, I’m afraid there’s no sign of him.’

‘What, nowhere?’ came the deep voice at the other end of the line.

‘Not that I can see. Are you sure he’s up here?’

‘About ninety-nine per cent. He was when I last spoke to him. Where have you looked?’

‘Everywhere,’ she said, then added, ‘Well, everywhere apart from the bedrooms.’

There was a pause while he wished someone a happy Christmas and told them to grab a glass of champagne, and then he was back. ‘Why haven’t you checked the bedrooms?’

‘It seemed like an invasion of privacy,’ she said, thinking that actually, talking of privacy, if Leo was in there, he could well be doing something that meant he either hadn’t been able to hear her calling or didn’t want to. Possibly something wholly absorbing and very private indeed.

‘You needn’t worry about interrupting anything,’ said Jake, now sounding a bit impatient and, apparently, able to read her mind. ‘It’s seven in the evening and besides, Leo hasn’t had a woman in his bed for years.’

Which was way more than she needed to know about anyone, let alone a client. ‘Nevertheless, I—’

‘Look, Abby,’ said Jake, cutting across her protest in an I’m-the-client-here tone that told her he’d had enough and would brook no further argument. ‘I have to make this speech, and people are wondering where he is—as am I—so will you please just go and see if you can find him?’

Realising this wasn’t a battle she was going to win and consoling herself with the thought that so far they’d actually been remarkably—and surprisingly, given their exacting standards—easy clients, Abby gave in. After all, it was hardly the worst thing she’d been asked to do in her ten years of event planning, was it? The Cartwright brothers were paying her a lot of money to ensure that this evening went smoothly and if that meant that Leo Cartwright had to be located, then locate him she would. Wherever he was and whatever he was doing.

And so what if he had the faintly intimidating reputation of being formidable, ruthless and utterly devoid of emotion? He couldn’t be any trickier to handle than the last client she’d had, could he? She’d take cold, formidable and ruthless over a bad-tempered paranoid who’d accused her at virtually every meeting of, at best, wasting his money, at worst, siphoning some of it off.

‘Sure,’ she said briskly, mentally pulling on her big-girl pants and injecting steel into her spine. ‘No problem.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jake, and cut the call.

Swiping at her phone to lock the screen, Abby put it away and pushed herself off the desk. Then she smoothed her dress and adjusted her belt so that the bright silver bow once again sat exactly above her left hip bone.

Really, there was no need to feel awkward or uncomfortable or nervous about searching the rest of the flat, was there? She was just doing her job. She’d call ahead—loudly—and if Leo was in there he’d be alerted to her presence. He’d call back, she’d retreat and wait, and everything would be absolutely fine. There’d be no unwelcome surprises. No embarrassing moments. No inappropriate or foolish behaviour.

Satisfied with the plan, she checked her chignon for hair that might have escaped the pins, and then, pleased to find nothing amiss, picked up her clipboard and set off to investigate.

And while stomping to announce her arrival was never going to work given the deadening effect of the thick deep-pile carpet, perhaps a loud cheery hello would.

‘Hello, hello,’ she called brightly, and stuck her head round the door to a huge, immaculate but empty bedroom before moving to the next. ‘Anyone home?’ she trilled, but her quarry wasn’t there either.

Nor—perhaps thankfully—did she find him in the gorgeous bathroom that was practically the size of the ground floor of her house or, unsurprisingly enough, in the laundry cupboard.

Which left only one room to try.

Standing at the entrance to what she presumed was the master bedroom suite and her last hope, she listened for a moment for sounds that suggested he might be engaged in an activity she’d rather not disturb.

Blessedly hearing none, she rapped on the door that was ajar, and then, after taking a deep breath, went in.

And there he was.

Alone, thank goodness. But lying flat out on his back, sprawled diagonally across the bed, naked apart from a perilously small section of white bunched-up sheet that loosely covered him from waist to mid-thigh, and illuminated by a pool of soft light cast by the bedside lamp.

For one frozen heart-stopping moment Abby couldn’t work out what to do next. Which was odd because she always had a plan. Always. More than one, in fact; when it came to the events she organised she had plans to cover every imaginable eventuality. Her job, her success, depended on it, and so she never didn’t know what to do.

But now, as she looked at him, strangely unable to drag her gaze away, her mouth going dry and her heart thumping unnaturally fast, she couldn’t even think, let alone act because for some unfathomable reason her brain appeared to be having a bit of a wiring problem. Alarmingly, rational thought was heading for the hills. Her common sense was evaporating. And her unfailing capability to do her job was, well, for the first time in years, apparently failing.

The fast-disappearing professional side of her was dimly aware she should go and shake him awake and point out that he was late for his own party. But the sometime insomniac in her wanted to leave him to sleep, and the woman in her—who hadn’t been up close and personal to a man in six months and was now very much making herself known—was quite happy to just stand there and ogle for as long as it took him to wake up. Because with the broad muscled shoulders, the tanned hair-sprinkled chest and the long powerful legs that suggested the gym wasn’t just for show, Leo Cartwright was quite a sight.

Yet as she looked and dithered, the part of her that devoured TV hospital dramas began to wonder at the utter stillness of him, at the strong smell of stale alcohol that was wafting towards her and the absence of any rise and fall to his chest.

And it was this that made her brain finally engage, because, oh heavens, what if, by some horrible twist of fate, he weren’t simply asleep?

Propelled by a sudden surge of alarm and now no longer ogling, Abby sprang into action. Not bothering to weave her way through the clothes that were lying scattered all over the floor but instead ploughing straight through them and hardly even noticing, she reached the bed, dropped to her knees and leaned in close.

With the focus that had had her business making a profit in its first six months of operation she blanked out the horrible smell, the spark of sexual attraction and the nauseating panic. Everything, in fact, but the need to find out if he was OK.

As her pulse galloped she fixed her gaze on his mouth. Strained her ears. Waited. Listened …

And, after a couple of long heart-thumping seconds, was able to make out the very faint hiss of breath. Then, as she looked down, the beat of the pulse at the base of his neck, barely perceptible, but there.

Oh, thank goodness for that, she thought, sitting back on her heels and letting out a long slow breath of her own as the panic subsided and her heart rate returned to normal.

He wasn’t dead. Of course he wasn’t. He’d merely passed out, that was all. Which was such a relief, not least because while she might be a fan of TV hospital dramas she didn’t have the first clue about resuscitation apart from the fact that mouth-to-mouth was no longer thought to be necessary.

And wasn’t that a shame, because now she wasn’t watching it for signs of life she could see he had a great mouth. Well defined. Sexy.

Much like the rest of his face, she thought, her gaze drifting over his features. His nose was straight and his jaw firm. His cheekbones were sharp and his brows were as thick and dark as the tousled hair on his head. She could only guess at the colour of his eyes but his eyelashes were the kind that a woman who was sometimes strawberry blonde, sometimes ginger, and so had virtually invisible eyelashes, could only dream about.

It was a strong face. Gorgeous. And in sleep there didn’t seem anything cold, forbidding or ruthless about him at all. There certainly didn’t seem anything cold about his mouth. It looked warm. Soft. Lovely. Tempting. Very, very kissable, and there for the taking.

And whether it was because she’d just had the fright of her life and all kinds of emotions were rushing through her or whether it was because it had been so long since she’d been this close to a man she didn’t know, but for one crazy moment she wanted to lean forwards and take. Desperately.

At the thought of it, the intoxicating possibility of it, her head swam and her heart pounded and she very nearly did exactly that. Would have done had not the reason and common sense that had been eluding her slammed back into her head, making her freeze and jerk back as if suddenly jabbed with a red-hot poker because, oh, goodness, she’d actually started moving.

What the hell was she doing? she wondered, horror at her lack of control shooting through her. What was she thinking? Was she completely insane?

This wasn’t some kind of gender-reversed Sleeping flipping Beauty. Leo Cartwright wasn’t a prince. He was a client. One of her biggest to date, in fact. What if he’d woken up and found her leaning in for a kiss? He’d have been horrified. Appalled. Rightly so. He’d probably have fired her. Her reputation would have been in tatters, her career over, and the blood, sweat, tears and money she’d poured into the business would have been for nothing.

Abby shuddered as an icy sweat broke out all over her skin. God, it didn’t bear thinking about. Everything she’d worked for. Possibly gone. In a nanosecond of utter lunacy.

But it was fine, she assured herself, taking a deep calming breath and feeling the nausea churning around in her stomach subside. It had been a close call but she’d pulled herself back from the brink of madness and he hadn’t woken up. She’d got away with it. He’d never know what she’d so very nearly done. No one would. It was fine.

And so was she. She had to be. Because she was at work, for heaven’s sake. Work. So now wasn’t the time for panic, desire and random acts of insanity. In fact, now wasn’t the time to be anything other than Abby Summers, event planner extraordinaire. Professional, in control, and completely on top of him—things. God. On top of things.

Swallowing hard and ruthlessly ignoring the bolt of heat that rocketed through her at the thought of that, Abby gave herself a mental slap and pulled herself together because, really, this had to stop. It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. And, quite frankly, she’d had enough.

So she yanked her shoulders back, set her jaw, scanned his upper body for a suitable target and absolutely did not think about how it might feel to run her fingers over his chest, his abdomen, maybe following the trail of her hands with her mouth, down, towards the sheet and then lower …

She blinked and snapped her gaze up. His arm would do. Right. She flexed her hands, leaned forwards and gave his biceps a quick prod.

‘Mr Cartwright,’ she murmured, her voice sounding unusually husky and weirdly seductive. ‘Leo.’

He grunted and shifted but he didn’t wake, and, remembering the bottle in the study, Abby wondered how much he’d had to drink. Then she cleared her throat, put her hand flat on his shoulder and, ignoring the heat of his skin and the hardness of his muscle beneath her palm, said his name again. But this time it was loudly and not in the least bit seductively, and the shake she gave him could have roused an elephant.

Which seemed to do the trick because with a bellow that made her nearly topple backwards in fright he twisted round, thrashed about a bit, then jackknifed up.

And just when she thought that the situation couldn’t get any worse, just when she thought her body had undergone enough physical wrangling for one evening, there went the sheet.

Abby’s gaze automatically shot down his chest to his partially exposed and—oh, Lord—very aroused crotch and, with a strangled yelp, she clapped her hand to her eyes, and thought with the one brain cell that hadn’t yet shut down in defeat, no unwelcome surprises? No embarrassing moments? And no inappropriate or foolish behaviour? Hah, who had she been kidding?

A second ago Leo had been asleep. That much he knew. Now he wasn’t. That much he knew too. Which was a shame because he’d been having the best dream about a warm woman who smelt of flowers and who’d been leaning over him, murmuring his name and—rather randomly but pleasingly—been just about to kiss him.

But something had disturbed him. Jolted him and roused him to the extent that he was now sitting bolt upright in bed, his pulse racing, his instincts dazed and confused and adrenalin shooting through his blood.

He raked his hands through his hair and gave his head a shake but it didn’t dispel the sleep-induced fuzziness, the bewilderment or the thundering of his heart.

What the hell had happened? he wondered dizzily. What had woken him? Not a nightmare, that was for sure. So had it been a noise? A movement? What?

Rolling his shoulders, Leo blinked once, twice, rubbed his gritty eyes with the heels of his hands as he struggled to work it out, and then, quite suddenly, he froze. His entire body tensed and his ears pricked because, hang on, what on earth was that?

It sounded like a breath. To his left. Being released, slowly, carefully, lengthily, as if the owner didn’t want him to hear, and ending in a sigh, a whimper, or maybe a moan.

Whatever it was, with the adrenalin still pumping through his veins, preparing his body and mind for fight, Leo dropped his hands and snapped his head round. And nearly leapt a foot in the air because there beside his bed, sitting back on her heels with one hand clamped over her eyes and the other clasped to her chest, was a woman. Slim, reddish-blonde and wearing a dark blue dress with a bow thing tied round her waist. Unknown, uninvited and apparently in as much shock as he was.

Glancing down and seeing the dramatic effect that the dream he’d been having had had on him—which was presumably the reason she’d covered her eyes and explained the harsh, ragged breathing that was making her chest heave—Leo grabbed the sheet and yanked it over his lap.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he snapped, his voice rough with sleep and astonishment.

‘Abby Summers,’ she said quickly, hoarsely.

The name didn’t ring any bells, but then maybe that wasn’t surprising because nothing was ringing any bells right now apart from the fact that he was naked and not alone. ‘What are you doing in my bedroom?’

‘Looking for you.’

‘On your knees?’

‘Long story,’ she said. ‘Not important.’

Wasn’t it? Who knew? Leo could barely think straight, let alone work out what might or might not be of importance here. He was too busy processing the fact that there was a strange woman in his bedroom, on the floor with her eyes covered and her breath coming in tiny gasps, making him think of blindfolds and what her gasps might turn into if he suggested she join him actually on the bed instead of beside it. All of which was so unbelievably out of character, so wholly inappropriate and so crazily beyond the realms of his usually rock-solid self-control, his brain would have reeled had it been up to it.

‘How did you get in?’ he muttered, totally thrown by how badly he wanted to grab her and roll her beneath him when he knew absolutely nothing about her or why she was here, and thinking that, damn, that dream had a lot to answer for.

‘The lift.’

‘It’s locked.’

‘Your brother gave me his key card.’

His brother? Huh? Now what was going on? Leo rubbed a hand over his face in an effort to wake himself up and get a grip on things. ‘Jake did?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded and the light caught her hair, making it glint gold—no, copper—no, gold—and, momentarily distracted, he wondered what it would be like to pull it down and run his fingers through it. If it would feel as silky and soft as it looked. How many words there were to describe its colour.

Flexing his fingers, then folding his arms and shoving his hands into his armpits just in case they got ideas, Leo hauled his concentration—such as it was—back on track. ‘Why?’

‘So I could come up and find you, of course,’ she said as if it couldn’t be clearer, which it wasn’t.

But the mention of his brother seemed to have triggered his memory because snippets of the last conversation he and Jake had had were filtering into his head, slowly lifting the fog of confusion and, ah-h-h, now it was all becoming clear.

The time of year.

His mood.

The mention his brother had made of a gift.

Evidently Jake had followed up on his promise, and therefore Leo knew exactly who Abby Whoever-She-Was was, and what she was here for.

‘Right,’ he muttered, not really up to working out how he felt about what his brother had done. ‘I get it. You’re here to cheer me up.’

There was a pause, during which he watched her mouth open, close, then open again to emit a slightly startled, ‘What?’

‘Jake said he was going to send me something to make me feel better,’ he said flatly. ‘And here you are, all dressed up like a gift. In my bedroom. Virtually in my bed. So who are you? Someone who owes him a favour? One of his desperate-to-please exes? Or a professional?’