Blue Mondays: The Complete Series

by Emily Dubberley

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

When Lucy Green sees a stranger drop his wallet on the Tube, it's the beginning of a cat-and-mouse relationship that enlightens, frustrates and arouses her in equal measure. She follows him to give it back, and is soon drawn into a situation she never dreamed possible, behaving in a way she never thought she would. She seems to respond to Ben at some animal level, and it's frightening. Should she follow her head, say goodbye and carry on her way to work? Or go with him and explore her adventurous side? Contemporary romance with a sizzling erotic element.

Release date: October 23, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter 1

The laptop bag was digging painfully into Lucy’s shoulder. She tried to move it but the Tube was too packed for her to reach across her body without spilling her coffee. Her other arm was pinned in position by a perfectly groomed woman wearing an immaculate cream coat – who was now also wearing a scowl directed at Lucy. Lucy smiled apologetically, wriggled her shoulders and shifted her weight from foot to foot, hoping to somehow dislodge the strap twisted directly over the soft dip of her shoulder, but to no avail. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and tried to think happy thoughts: only six more stops. The pain in her feet was helpfully distracting her from her shoulder; the heels she’d fallen in love with at the weekend had been gorgeous at first glance but were hellish in reality. A bit like the men she’d been dating recently. She only realised she’d sighed out loud when the man closest to her gave her a quizzical look.

Lucy yawned: getting out of bed this morning had been a struggle, and walking to the station in the rain had only added to the Monday blues. She’d laddered her tights in a fight with her umbrella – though to be fair, the umbrella came off worse. As a result, the half hour she’d spent blow-drying her hair was wasted, and hairspray was now sticking clumps of it together in rat tails. ‘Because I’m worth it,’ she thought, as she caught sight of herself in the Tube window.

Still, back to the happy thoughts: she’d spent the weekend working on the reports her boss, Anna, wanted and had emailed them over late last night, so all she had to do this morning was press clippings; everyone else on her floor would be in the morning meeting. Lucy knew it was a dogsbody job but she enjoyed looking through newspapers and magazines for stories that could be relevant to the business. It gave her time to ease into the week, absorbing the latest fashion, celebrity, culture and style news to update the team – even if they did seem to know it all already, through some form of hipster osmosis. Lucy tugged self-consciously at her mint-green pencil skirt, which had a daring split up the front: all the magazines said pastels were in this season, but she wasn’t entirely sure the suit was flattering. She’d find out soon enough – Anna didn’t hold back on giving her opinion – whether you’d asked for it or not. The carriage lurched and Lucy bit her lip as her bag shifted on her shoulder, making her muscles twinge again.

The Tube pulled into Victoria and the doors opened; commuters flowed out rapidly onto the equally packed platform. In the short space between them leaving and more people getting on, Lucy could breathe out fully without worrying she’d be invading someone’s personal space. She quickly moved her bag onto the other shoulder – bliss – and tried to manoeuvre her way towards one of the now-empty seats, but the groomed woman blocked her way, seemingly oblivious to her. As Lucy tried to squeeze past, coffee clutched close to her chest, the woman’s elbow knocked her and brown froth shot out the top of the cup, down Lucy’s pale suit jacket. Lucy bit her lip, her face burning, and muttered an apology – though she couldn’t help noticing the woman was as pristine as before, not a drop of coffee on her. The woman scowled again; then promptly took the seat Lucy had been aiming for.

Lucy edged towards the only other empty seat, but the passengers from the platform were pushing onto the train and a slim woman with a ‘baby on board’ badge was making a beeline for it. The woman looked at her pointedly, and Lucy stepped out of the way to allow her to sit. She grabbed the bar overhead, put her laptop bag on the floor between her feet and took a sip of coffee –lukewarm. At least the strap wasn’t hurting her shoulder any more – and she only had five more stops to go. She wiggled her toes inside her shoes as she idly glanced around the carriage.

Now that the scowling woman had sat down, the passenger standing closest to her was a man holding a large picnic basket. It seemed incongruous – if he was on his way to a date, odd timing aside, he could definitely be accused of lacking attention to detail. Although he was obviously making some effort to look smart in a white shirt and chinos, his sleeves were rolled up, his shoes had mud on them and his tousled hair suggested he’d either got caught in the rain or had forgotten to brush his hair before he left the house. Given his stubble, either was possible – though his damp shirt suggested the weather was at least partly to blame. He looked out of place next to the Sloane Square suits and Notting Hill media-types surrounding him – though that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. His shoulders were broad and his arms were strong, muscles bulging softly as he held the hamper, thighs pressing against his chinos. He didn’t have the body of a gym addict, though; more the look of a man who spent a lot of active time outdoors.

As her eyes wandered, Lucy noticed a burst of sandy chest hair poking out of the top of the shirt, which clung to his body enough to show he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. She knew it was ridiculous, but seeing him in nothing but a shirt with rolled-up sleeves when the men around him were all wearing jackets or coats made him appear more masculine, unfazed by such trivialities as the weather. She looked more closely, following the outline of the muscles under his shirt, his nipples hard against the damp fabric, helping Lucy paint a mental picture that made her smile properly for the first time all morning. She shifted her gaze upwards, and realised the man was looking directly at her. Her face heated for the second time in her journey – but when he shot her a broad smile, she couldn’t help but smile back – though her blush deepened.

As the train approached Sloane Square, the woman in the cream coat took a mirror from her bag and checked her make-up, dabbing at an imperceptible smudge with a handkerchief before pulling out a perfume atomiser. She sprayed herself liberally, filling the air with a sweet cloying smell that made Lucy fight against retching – she was unable to stop her nose from wrinkling. She backed a little further up the carriage, away from the perfume – and towards the man with the hamper. The woman, oblivious to the effect her ablutions were having, stood up and followed Lucy towards the doors. She took hold of the rail, displaying an armful of heavily jewelled bracelets and revealing that the cream coat was, in fact, a cape. The movement only served to waft more perfume into the faces of all those around her. When the Tube doors finally opened and the woman stepped out, Lucy had never been so grateful for London air. She gulped down a couple of cold, metallic breaths through the open door.

‘So do you want her seat, before you pass out from the fumes?’ the man asked her.

‘Sorry?’

‘Well, you look like you need to sit down. Not that I blame you – as far as I’m concerned that kind of stuff should be considered a chemical weapon. Oh – too late. Sorry.’Lucy glanced over to see another man taking the seat, but she couldn’t say she regretted her loss. She could tell from his expression that the smell still lingered, so standing up had its benefits. She smiled at the stranger.

‘It doesn’t matter – not got far to go – but thanks for the thought. Didn’t you want the seat? That looks heavy.’ She gestured at the basket.

‘I’m used to carrying more than a hamper around the place. Anyway, I like to practise balancing.’

Lucy blinked at him, unsure what to say.

‘Don’t look at me like that. It’s all about bending at the knees. You never know when a good sense of balance will come in handy. Why waste a fortune on Pilates lessons when London Underground is kind enough to offer the perfect core workout for free?’ As if to prove his point, the man stayed upright as the train lurched into South Kensington, even though Lucy had to lean against the glass divider to stay balanced.

‘Then again, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

The man gestured at two seats that had emptied next to them and Lucy gratefully sat down. She was tempted to ease her feet out of her shoes but wasn’t entirely sure she’d be able to squeeze them back on afterwards – did pins and needles lead to swollen feet?

She put her laptop back between her feet and turned to the man, catching his scent for the first time as he leaned towards her. He smelled outdoorsy – just a whiff of fresh-cut grass, with feral, rich undertones, his cotton shirt adding a musty but not unpleasant dampness. He was clearly wearing some fresh, citrussy aftershave but it was dominated by his natural musk in a way that made Lucy’s stomach flip and her mind flounder in search of a way to continue the conversation. She had never felt so turned on just from somebody’s smell. Apart from anything else, it was a welcome respite from the previous olfactory assault.

‘So I have to ask, what’s the hamper in aid of?’ she managed. ‘It’s hardly picnic weather.’

‘That depends where you’re going. Anyway, it was only a flurry of rain this morning – I think it’s going to turn out lovely.’

‘Positive thinking.’

‘What’s the point of any other kind?’ he grinned. ‘If you’re having a shit day, why wallow? You can’t change what’s happening but you can change your attitude to it. Take that perfume woman – you could either see her as thoughtless and self-centred, or as a shining example of why money doesn’t matter.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, she was clearly loaded, but she must be miserable or she wouldn’t have been so snotty and rude. If money doesn’t make you happy, then why chase it? Here you are first thing on a Monday morning, struggling into work when I’m sure you’d much rather be in bed.’ Was it Lucy’s imagination, or did he linger on the word ‘bed’? ‘What would happen if you didn’t go into work?’ he continued.

‘Well, Mondays aren’t really a good example. It’s mostly an admin day.’

He arched an eyebrow. ‘So, papers don’t get filed. And …?’

Lucy thought for a second. What did it matter if she went into work or not? What did she do that was actually useful? When she first came to London to work in events, she’d wanted to help run charity fundraisers and combine fun with helping people – use glamour for good. When she’d joined BAM! Anna had told her that they took corporate social responsibility seriously but, other than doing social media for a charity event that happened to be hosted by one of Anna’s favourite celebrities, Lucy had seen little evidence of that in four years. She’d always railed against the idea that people in marketing had no souls but the longer she worked at the agency, the more she suspected the stereotype was true.

‘You’re doing it again.’

‘What?’

‘Thinking too much – you look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders. You’ve spent half your journey biting your lip so you’re clearly worrying about something. Perfume woman has given you the perfect excuse to throw off your shackles. You need to relax, have some fun.’

Lucy bristled at his suggestion – did she seem uptight? ‘I don’t think my landlord would be happy to get his rent in “fun”.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said the man, eyes rapidly running over Lucy’s body in a way that she should have found offensive but instead made her stomach flip again. ‘All I’m saying is, see life as an opportunity. You’ve already learned something this morning.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Other than my world-class political analysis, that bad perfume can be a conversation-starter, of course. When’s the last time you talked to a stranger on the Tube?’

Lucy smiled. ‘Fair point. So what’s your excuse?’

‘I’m not from round here,’ he said, putting on a country bumpkin accent.

‘So you’re not used to our London ways?’

‘Exactly. I’m a Cornwall boy – far friendlier than you city types.’

‘My sister lives there, but I’ve not been to see her yet so I’ll have to take your word for it,’ Lucy replied.

‘It’s a great part of the country but it’s not ideal for setting up a business. Too far from London.’

‘So the anti-capitalist wants to earn money?’

The man smiled. ‘Touché – but not money. Time. I spent nearly ten years working for other people before I realised that I was spending all my time building someone else’s dream. So I decided to go for my own dream instead.’

‘Which is?’

‘Good food and an easy life.’

‘You’re a chef?’

He laughed. ‘If you’d ever met one you’d know that’s not an easy life. No – although I did go to catering college. But I soon realised the hours were ridiculous – unless you enjoy working every weekend and having a social life that fits into two hours mid-afternoon and a staff drink at midnight if you’re lucky.’

‘Sounds almost as bad as my job. I’ve worked four weekends in a row.’

‘That’s a lot of admin.’

‘It’s not just admin,’ she protested. ‘I get to be creative too.’

‘What was the last creative thing you did?’

Lucy thought about the last campaign she worked on, a supermarket promotion for dog toothbrushes: one of the few unglamorous clients the company had, and the only one she’d been given to manage rather than just support since she’d started at BAM!. ‘I came up with a campaign that led to a twenty per cent sales increase in canine oral health products.’ Even as the words fell out of her mouth, she felt foolish.

‘Decaying dog teeth – an important issue. If you didn’t go into work, the nation’s dogs would be filling up dentists’ chairs. No one could get their wisdom teeth taken out. People would be grumpy because of cavities. I take it all back – clearly, you do need to work all hours or the nation will be in peril. I’ll thank you the next time I get savaged by a dog with healthy teeth.’

Even though he was teasing her, the man’s eyes crinkled so mischievously that Lucy couldn’t take offence.

‘So what’s the terribly important work that you do, then? You avoided the question.’

‘I didn’t – I just got diverted by doggy dentistry. I run a food network.’

‘On TV?’ He was certainly good-looking enough to be a television presenter.

‘Hell, no. I’m not really a fan of TV chefs – their egos are more important than their stomachs. No, a local food network. I work with suppliers all over the south-east to help get the best local products out to a wider audience.’

‘So you’re in marketing too?’

‘Not really, although I do work with a lot of campaign groups – “grow your own” initiatives, food banks, that kind of thing. But there are two main sides to my business: a centralised online shop so people can buy local products from one website, and a small wholesale service to restaurants, to help push local producers – hence the hamper.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘Where to start? Cheese, meat, jams, pickles – and something I’m hoping will pay the rent this month.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Lucy, her stomach rumbling. She was regretting missing breakfast.

‘If I tell you I’ll have to kill you. But you’ve got an honest face, so what the hell.’

He opened the hamper and pulled out a paper bag. When he held it out Lucy peered nervously inside.

‘Mushrooms?’

‘Not just mushrooms. Morels. Worth about twice as much per kilo as fillet steak at the moment.’

‘So why would you have to kill me for showing me mushrooms?’

‘In case you follow me home and try to find my morel patch, of course. There’s good money in those hills.’

The next station is High Street Kensington.

Lucy felt a pang of disappointment as the man stood up. ‘This is me,’ he said. ‘Pleasure to meet you. Enjoy the rest of your day. And remember, hands off my mushrooms.’

Lucy’s eyes followed the man, a smile still on her lips, as he put the hamper under one arm and headed through the door. The train was emptying, so she leaned over to pick up her laptop and put it on the seat next to her. As she did, she noticed a wallet where her mushrooming companion had been sitting. The doors were beeping, and starting to close. Without thinking, she grabbed the wallet, ran for the doors, laptop flapping, and just made it through before they closed and the train pulled out of the station.

Lucy scoured the platform but couldn’t see the man anywhere. Surely he couldn’t move that fast carrying a hamper? She followed the flow of people, looking from left to right, but it was only when she reached the top of the stairs that she saw him, heading through the ticket hall on the other side of the barriers. She was about to call him when she realised that they hadn’t exchanged names. She quickly opened the wallet and rifled for a card – Ben Turner.

‘Ben,’ she called, but although the man paused for a second, he kept walking. Lucy fumbled for her Oyster card and waved it at the machine, striding through the ticket hall and the short parade of shops beyond it and reaching the street exit just in time to see Ben turning down a side road. She started running, cursing her shoes with every agonising step. As she reached the turning he headed inside a building towards the end of the street – Lucy was just too far behind him to call out and attract his attention. She kept running, pace slowing as she felt her left heel start to blister. Arriving at a set of glass doors, Lucy peered inside and saw a reception desk – it must be some kind of office block. She walked in.

‘Excuse me, I’ve got something for Ben Turner – the man who just came in here. Can you let me know where I can find him?’

‘Let me just check, madam.’ The man behind the desk started tapping at a computer. ‘Sorry. The system’s crashed. I’m going to have to do a restart. I’ll be right with you.’ He resumed typing.

Lucy waited, increasingly aware that she was going to be late for work. Thank god for the morning meeting – no one would be out of that until noon, so as long as she was there reading magazines when it finished they’d assume she’d been there all the time. Rosie on reception was a mate and wouldn’t drop her in it. Lucy’s eyes roamed carelessly around the foyer as she waited, settling on the plant in the corner, the magazines laid out for visitors, the guest book. She spotted a familiar name.

‘It says here that Ben Turner signed in to Babylon. That’s who I need.’

‘If you’d just like to sign in.’

‘I’m only popping in and out.’

‘Regulations, miss.’

Lucy scribbled her name onto the badge, waited as the receptionist painstakingly slotted it into a plastic holder on a lanyard, and headed for the lift.

‘You’ll want the seventh floor,’ he called after her.

As the lift carried her upwards, Lucy wondered what the hell she was doing. Yes, the guy lost his wallet. But what was wrong with handing it in at the Tube station like anyone else? No, she had to get all heroic. Her mum was always telling her to stop trying to save everyone around her and look after herself. Then again, he was seriously gorgeous so maybe she was looking after herself: her mum would probably understand if she saw him.

The lift beeped and Lucy stepped into another foyer. There was a reception desk but there didn’t seem to be any staff around. She headed down the corridor, past a row of coat racks, and found herself in an empty restaurant.

‘Can I help you?’ asked a man cleaning glasses behind the bar.

‘I’m here to see Ben Turner.’

‘No one called that here. Is he here for a meeting?’

‘He’s …’ Lucy tried to remember. ‘A food supplier.’

‘Oh, guy with a hamper?’

‘That’s him.’

‘He’s with chef outside. Follow me.’

 

As Lucy stepped through the door, it took her a few seconds to stop staring. Moroccan lampshades and ornate trellises decorated a formal garden that spread as far as she could see, complete with gazebos and intricately laid-out flower beds. It didn’t feel like she was in London any more, but some glamorous foreign retreat – or perhaps in an Arabian fairy tale. As if in homage to the view the sun broke through the clouds, shining through sheer chiffon curtains that masked off booths around the edges. She realised she’d been gaping in silence, and thanked the barman, who gestured her towards one of the covered areas and headed back inside, saying ‘I’m in the bar if you need anything.’

As she walked through the elegantly designed garden and neared the covered veranda, Lucy saw a well-muscled forearm resting on the arm of a high-backed chair turned away from her, and a hamper resting on a low table.

‘Ben?’

The man stood and turned. His brow furrowed.

‘Maybe I was right to be fearful for my mushrooms if you’re tracking me from the Tube – and you know my name.’

‘You left your wallet behind,’ Lucy said, holding it out.

‘You have got to be kidding me. I hadn’t even noticed. You’re a lifesaver.’

He pulled her into a hug so spontaneous that Lucy didn’t see it coming, and she stood, arms rigid, unsure of what to do.

‘No worries. Well, nice seeing you again.’ When he released her she turned to go, embarrassed. His scent was provoking the same response as it had on the train and it was really rather disconcerting.

Ben reached out, fingertips brushing against the back of her arm. ‘Not so fast, sunshine. You’ve just returned my wallet. Surely you want some kind of a reward? And you haven’t even told me your name.’

‘It’s Lucy. And someone wise once told me money doesn’t buy happiness.’

‘Who said I was offering money?’

Pictures of what lay under Ben’s shirt sprang all too easily to mind and Lucy gave an involuntary sharp intake of breath.

‘Not that – you have a dirty mind,’ Ben said. ‘And you’re utterly transparent. I like it.’

He smiled cheekily, with such charm that Lucy couldn’t feel offended.

‘No, I was wondering, could I treat you to breakfast? I’ve got a hamper full of food, so the least I can do is feed you. I just need to quickly go through it with Stefan – the chef here – so he can place an order. He had to go back to the kitchen to check on prep but it shouldn’t take long.’

‘I’m already running late for work.’

‘Exactly. And didn’t you . . .