Thirty days of discovery…With her self-esteem at an all-time low following a disastrous relationship, Jules just needs a place to hide away, so when her childhood friend Theo offers her a place to stay she jumps at the chance!But the handsome, suave and sophisticated man who greets her is unrecognisable as the teenaged nerd she knew ten years ago. She’s out of her depth in Theo’s new world, especially when he reveals the nature of the business that has made him a very wealthy man…Theo owns and runs an exclusive club, a very private members club, catering to clients seeking something extra to spice up their private lives. But Jules’s shock and embarrassment turns to fascination and excitement when Theo gifts her a complimentary thirty day membership…
Thirty days of discovery…
With her self-esteem at an all-time low following a disastrous relationship Jules just needs a place to hide away, so when her childhood Theo offers her a place to stay she jumps at the chance!
But the handsome, suave and sophisticated man who greets her is unrecognisable as the teenaged nerd she knew ten years ago. She’s out of her depth in Theo’s new world, especially when he reveals the nature of the business that has made him a very wealthy man…
Theo owns and runs an exclusive club, a very private members club, catering to clients seeking something extra to spice up their private lives. But Jules’s shock and embarrassment turns to fascination and excitement when Theo gifts her a complimentary thirty day membership…
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015
Copyright © Jane O’Reilly 2015
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E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474030748
Version date: 2018-07-23
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 It’s unpublished, which is probably for the best.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 wrote a romance, and that, as they say, was that. She lives near London with her husband and two children. Find her at www.janeoreilly.com (http://www.janeoreilly.com), on Twitter as @janeoreilly (http://www.twitter.com/janeoreilly) and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/janeoreillyauthor (http://www.facebook.com/janeoreillyauthor)
Title Page (#u17144bc3-13bd-588e-887f-8d1e47d358c8)
Author Bio (#uf6501fc8-ba58-580c-a1ff-311b5e1af0f3)
Chapter One (#u6959a041-5c6e-57d0-9eb4-7dd914c0c65e)
Chapter Two (#uf7dba4d7-c5df-5512-9de4-fc21fffe6d80)
Chapter Three (#ub610cb6c-d8b2-560a-a482-f537889d395c)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_c6f97c24-1348-5f35-883e-33e7293ae32d)
This can’t be the right place. I pull out my phone, check the address for the third time, but it seems that it is, no matter how little sense it makes. It’s half past two in the afternoon and I’m standing in a narrow street in Chelsea, looking at a closed door at the rear of a large, red brick building. The door itself is painted glossy black with an ornate brass handle. There’s a doorbell mounted on the wall at my eye level. Above the door is a security camera.
I wonder if it’s working, and drop my gaze away from it.
When Theo gave me his address, I was expecting a flat. Maybe even a house. But this is neither. In fact, I’m not quite sure what it is. Possibly some sort of private members club, although I’ve no idea what kind. It does seem very…Theo, however, and that’s what has me reaching for the small brass bell mounted at the side of the door. I hesitate a moment longer, and then I swallow my fear and press the damn thing. If it rings, I can’t hear it.
No one is coming, I tell myself, tightening my grip on the handle of my pull-along case. I made a mistake. It’s fine. I’ll just go back to the train station and go home. I’ll ring Theo later, make some excuse. It was a stupid idea anyway, taking a sabbatical from work just because I broke up with my boyfriend. I should be in the office now, not here, in the middle of London with a pull-along suitcase and a headache.
I turn away, trying to pretend I’m not disappointed, that I’m not about to cry. I’ve been doing that a lot recently. Crying, that is. I’ve turned into a human fountain.
I lift my foot to take the first step, and the door opens.
‘Jules? Jules, is that you?’
I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere. It hasn’t changed. He still sounds like he smokes twenty a day, even though I know he hates cigarettes.
I force myself to stop, to turn around. ‘Theo.’
He steps forward, hands tucked in the pockets of dark trousers. ‘It’s good to see you, Jules.’
‘You too,’ I say, and we both stand there, taking a moment to look at each other. It’s funny how people can change without really changing at all. It’s been ten years since I last saw him, since we both left for university with promises to keep in touch. And we have kept in touch, sporadically. The odd Christmas card, the odd email, a loose connection on social media.