Men of London 03 - Suit Yourself Read Free Page A

loomed
in front of him and he shrieked like a cat being disembowelled. His
heart pounded and he pressed himself back against the door,
wondering for an instant if Adrian had found him after all.
    “Leslie, dear, really?” Laverne
Debussy-Smith’s husky voice sounded pained. “My fucking ears are
now ringing like the bells of Notre Dame.”
    “Well, jeez Louise, forgive me for thinking
someone was about to murder me,” retorted Leslie snarkily, bearing
in mind this was his boss and trying to
tone it down just a bit.
    Laverne’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as
she drawled, “What are you doing here, anyway? On the scrounge
again?” Her words belied the affectionate glance she directed at
him as Leslie huffed.
    Laverne Debussy-Smith was a law unto herself.
She was owner and founder of the company, as well as being a
talented clothing designer. Her own suit label, simply titled
‘Debussy,’ was highly prized, made for both women and men. Leslie
had one in his closet but doubted he could ever afford another.
    Laverne was also a man who’d been born Lenny
James, but decided that Laverne was definitely more fun in the
office. The man behind the woman was just as treasured by the
staff.
    “Ha-ha. If you must know, I was coming in to
check that delivery for Monday. The suit for that guy in Waterloo,
the one who spent a bloody fortune on it. Oliver somebody or the
other.” Leslie felt gratified that he’d remembered the delivery he
was supposed to do and could use it as an excuse. Laverne’s comment
about scrounging had rather wounded him, even if it was true.
    Laverne nodded and Leslie didn’t like the
glint in her aqua eyes. It looked…cunning. That could be a bad sign
of things to come, knowing her. He moved away from the door, going
toward the open-plan office, and, coincidentally, the recycle
bin.
    “Not so fast, my little bit of sex on legs.”
Laverne’s tone became playful and sexy and Leslie’s stomach
plummeted. He just knew he wasn’t going to be investigating the bin
for his lace anytime soon from the sound of it. Slowly, he turned
to face the woman dressed in a form-hugging, deep blue tailored
pants suit, mock breasts pushing up the stressed fabric. Leslie
wondered idly if it was screaming for release as the mounds pressed
against it like sponge being forced through the fabric tear of a
stuffed animal. A ripple of apprehension flooded his body.
Laverne’s favours came in two distinct flavours. One was the
innocuous, ‘Could you make me a cup of tea, darling?’ to ‘Could you
just rip your first born from your womb and give it to me?’ There
was no in-between in Leslie’s opinion. Perhaps he was being a bit
of a drama queen but these ad hoc requests always made him
nervous.
    “What?” He sighed resignedly. “What do you
need?”
    Laverne’s handsome, square-jawed face beamed
at him from under a wig of silver-blonde thick hair and Leslie
thought not for the first time that Lenny made rather a lovely
woman. Tall, broad-shouldered, statuesque, and beautifully dressed
no matter what, Laverne was a force to be reckoned with and Leslie
would do anything for her.
    “Well, this must be divine intervention.”
Laverne prowled her way across to Leslie, who took a deep breath.
More than once he’d been embraced between the twin peaks that made
up Laverne’s chest and every time had been a pretty suffocating
experience. However, this time he was given a reprieve.
    “The client called and said Monday was no
longer good for him, so could I please see whether I could get
anyone out there today. I was going to call Charlie and see if he
could do it, but now you’re here in person, my sweet lad, I rather
think Mr. Brown can be all yours.”
    Leslie raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“Really? His name is Oliver Brown? That’s pretty bleh. I think I’d
die from self-boredom with a name like that.” He was relieved at
the extent of the favour though. It sounded innocuous enough.
    Laverne frowned.