PLAYING DIRTY WITH THE HOT CEO

chapter 20

At about 3:30 p.m., we’re on the road, heading east to Alan Woodridge’s country house, deep in the Devon countryside.

We’re in Titus’s Range Rover, and dressed smart-casual, Titus in beige chinos and a dark-blue short-sleeved shirt, me in white capri pants and a hot-pink top.

“Okay?” I ask when I see him glance across at me for the second time.

“Yep,” he says.

“Something wrong with my trousers?”

“Nope.”

“Out with it, Lawrence.”

“They’re very tight,” he says.

I look down at them. “Are you saying I look like a slut?”

He gives me a startled glance. “How did you get that from what I said?”

“I extrapolated.”

“You extrapolate a lot. It wasn’t a complaint or a criticism. It was a statement. I shouldn’t have looked, but they’re tight, and you’re gorgeous, and I’m only human.” He sounds exasperated.

“Sorry,” I say. “I should have worn a kaftan.”

He scowls at me. “Don’t think I don’t realize you’re doing it on purpose.”

“I’m not!” Okay, I am, a little bit, but I’m not going to admit that to him. “I can’t help it if you’ve got s*x on the brain.”

“I wouldn’t have if you weren’t sitting next to me wearing clothes so tight that they leave nothing to the imagination.” That makes me giggle, and his lips curve up. “Minx,” he says.

“Seriously,” I reply, “I didn’t realize they were that tight. Do you think I ought to change? I want to make a good impression.”

“Not at all. You look amazing. You’re right, it’s my brain.” He sighs.

“How long has it been since you had s*x?” I ask.

“Nineteen weeks, four days, six hours, and about seventeen minutes.”

Now I’m giggling nonstop, and that makes him laugh. “Don’t mock me,” he says. “I thought I’d be distracting myself by concentrating on business all weekend, and instead I chose to invite the most beautiful girl in the country to go with me. I must be mad.”

I smile at him. “You say the nicest things.”

He huffs a sigh, although he smiles back. “Distract me,” he says. “For God’s sake.”

“All right. Tell me about Alan Woodridge and his family.”

“Okay. He’s in his late fifties, and he was born in New Zealand, but he met his wife, Vicky, when he came to the UK on his big OE, and he decided to stay here. They’ve got three girls, all married, and who’ve all had fertility issues, so it’s a cause that’s very close to his heart. The eldest, Carrie, has been trying to get pregnant for about eight years, and she’s had three rounds of IVF, but it’s not worked. She’s taken it hard, apparently—he actually got a bit emotional when he was telling me about her. Unfortunately his middle daughter, Rowena, has just had her first round of IUI and it’s failed. His youngest, Sarah, has gotten pregnant twice and had two miscarriages. He’s determined to do anything he can to help them, which is why he wants to invest in our research project.”

“Oliver said it was five hundred million dollars.”

“Yes, and he told me there’s more money there if the project goes well.”

“But he wants the project to be run from the UK?”

“Yes. It’s a fair enough request, and quite common to ask for a representative of the research company to be present. Obviously, Elizabeth would have been a better choice because she’s the chemist behind the development of the fertility drug, but Acheron has an AI department, and their engineers are keen to learn more about the selection of gametes and embryos.”

“Gametes being… eggs and sperm, right?”

“Yes.”

“So how does AI help selection?”

“We use static images and time-lapse videos to identify early markers of quality. With eggs, that includes things like follicle size; with sperm, we look at morphology, concentration, and motility.”

“What does that mean?”

“The ability to move efficiently.”

“So… basically whether a guy’s got good swimmers?”

He grins. “Yeah. We’re hoping that AI will eventually compute the optimal sperm–egg combination in order to achieve the highest success rate.”

“It’s fascinating stuff.”

“I think so.”

“Alan is obviously serious about the research if he wants to invest that kind of money into it.”

“Yes. He also said he’s determined to convince me to stay, so I’m expecting him to be relentless. Businessmen like that usually are. Although to be fair, I’ve spoken to him on Zoom, and he’s been nothing but pleasant.”

We chat a bit more about his research as he takes the slip road off the motorway, and heads east into the countryside. The hedges rise around us, the roads narrow, and when we crest a hill, the view opens up, the fields forming a patchwork quilt of greens, browns, and yellows.

“Wow,” Titus says, slowing as he approaches a large pair of iron gates. “I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but this certainly wasn’t it.”

“It looks like something out of Downton Abbey.” I watch Titus lower his window and press the buzzer on the box to the side of the gate.

“Hello?” he says. “Yes, it’s Lawrence Oates. Thank you.”

The gates begin to open, and he raises his window, then eases the Range Rover into the grounds of the house.

“Do you think that’s it?” Titus asks as a stone-built cottage appears on our left.

“I doubt it,” I reply. “That’s a gatekeeper’s lodge. Like a Kiwi sleepout. Beautiful isn’t it? Keep going.”

He continues up the gravel drive, which is lined on either side by tall, straight, Lombardy Poplar trees. Then, all of a sudden, the trees end, the drive opens up, and…

“Holy f**k,” Titus says, at the same time that I say, “Shiiiiit.”

In front of us is an enormous Edwardian country house, built from pink granite with a clay tiled roof. It has two floors, a round turret on the left-hand corner, several tall chimneys, and a large wooden front door.

A river glimmers through the trees to the left of the house. Behind the building, wildflower meadows give way to the purple and green of the moors like a bruise beneath the light-blue sky.

Titus pulls up out the front and turns off the engine. Then he looks at me, and we both start laughing.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s see if anyone’s in.”

As we get out of the car, the front door opens, and out comes a guy in his late-fifties, slender, about six foot tall, with short gray hair. He’s wearing a light-blue polo shirt and navy trousers.

“Titus,” he says, beaming as he holds out his hand.

“Alan.” Titus goes forward, and the two of them shake hands, with Alan putting his other hand on top of Titus’s.

“So glad you could make it,” Alan says.

“It’s good to be here.” Titus turns and beckons me forward. “This is my friend, Heidi. Her initials are HRH, so feel free to call her Your Royal Highness.”

“Titus,” I scold, “honestly.”

Alan laughs and shakes my hand. “It’s great to meet you, Heidi. I’m Alan, and my wife’s name is Vicky.” He turns and calls over his shoulder. “Vic? They’re here.”

A woman comes to the door, medium height, as slender as her husband, with hair that’s part blonde and part gray caught up in a clip that lets wavy strands frame her face. She’s wearing navy-blue capri trousers like mine, maybe not quite so tight, and a white sleeveless top.

“Hello.” Also beaming, she comes out and shakes Titus’s and then my hand. “So lovely to meet you both.”

“Come in,” Alan says. “The sun’s over the yardarm—must be time for a drink.”