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Chapter 10

Malcolm was too aware of the fact that Clara was following him on his heels, even though he wished she didn't. He couldn't talk to her, couldn't even fucking look at her, not after what had happened earlier in his office. Luckily for him Clara hadn't mentioned it with a single syllable and resumed her work until finally someone at The Guardian had had the sense to give out the name of the woman. Clara had talked to her personally, because Malcolm's Spanish was shit, and the prostitute had assured them she would tell any newspaper that asked her nothing but the truth: that the PM had asked for directions and that someone who worked at the hotel was a regular customer, not the Prime Minister. Everything was fine. Everything was back in order. Except for Clara, who now closed the door behind her, locking them both in his house. Still Malcolm couldn't look.

He had looked at her earlier when his pulse had been racing and his instinct had been to yell at everything and everyone, then he had looked her in the eyes and something inside his brain had switched off. But, fuck it, it had felt good and a part of him didn't even regret it at all. The woman it had happened with, the place, but not the sex. God knows he had needed to blow off some steam and that had been the best fucking way to do that. Yet not at the office. And not with his intern.

"Are we going to talk about it?" Clara asked behind him and Malcolm didn't even need to turn around and look at her to know what she was referring to.

He cleared his throat, dropping his briefcase on the kitchen chair. "I acted on impulse. Just forget about it."

"Well," she said and pushed herself into his field of vision. Had Clara always looked so fucking lovely? "I'm no expert but I'd say having sex at the office is a bad thing and the last thing you need right now is another scandal."

Malcolm shot around, glaring at her as best he could and Clara instantly stopped talking under his gaze. So he could still intimidate her, at least a little. "Listen, as lovely as fucking you was, I don't plan on doing it again," he snapped.

Clara opened her mouth to say something, but Malcolm cut her off before she even had the chance.

"So there's really no need to talk about it any further," he said determinedly.

She stared at him in disbelief for quite a long moment before she eventually shrugged. "Fine then," she spat and turned on her heels, storming off in the direction of her room.

When he heard the door being slammed shut Malcolm let out a groan and sank into the sofa cushions. Things with Clara had gone so well, better than he would have thought. They were a dream team when it came to handling the daily party crisis and Malcolm had even started to appreciate her. It was because of that that the sex had happened. He wasn't the type to go around and shag every fuckwit with a pretty face that came along. Usually he chose his partners wisely, even the escorts he occasionally booked. Clara had been a danger he hadn't seen coming, probably because she was young and his intern and therefore off limits until a moment he could no longer restrain himself.

"Fuck," he whispered and rubbed his face with his palms. Well, at least he could make sure it never happened again.

Clara saw very little of Malcolm on Sunday and they spoke only a quick good morning and good night in passing when they met on the stairs but other than that – nothing. She should have seen it coming, but she also knew that it would subside eventually. He had no intention of sleeping with her again and, as much as she had enjoyed their encounter in his office, she wasn't willing to pursue him if he didn't want to be pursued. Clara had too much pride for that.

When she stepped into the kitchen on Monday morning Malcolm was already sitting at the breakfast table, sipping his coffee.

"Morning," she mumbled sleepily as she sank down on her chair.

"Morning," he replied and immediately changed his posture, clearing his throat. Clara instantly knew he wanted something. "Listen, could you take my suit to the cleaners for me today?"

Clara raised an eyebrow. "Can't you do that yourself?"

"I would, except last time I tried to hand in a suit the lady behind the counter went into hiding. Haven't been able to hand in anything in weeks," he said casually as he took a bite off his croissant.

"Did you yell at her at some point?"

"I yell at everyone," he retorted, "And I need my best suit tomorrow for this fucking charity event for brain amputees or something. Might be the last chance to clean one of your good dresses, too."

"What charity event?" Clara's head instantly shot up. She hadn't brought any of her nice dresses to London with her, just office clothes. In fact, she was pretty sure she didn't even own a dress suitable for this kind of event.

Malcolm shook his head, seemingly annoyed. "Just some fucking charity party, they're all the same. And you're coming, too. There's no way I'm going to spend an evening with all of those dimwitted eejits on my own."

"But I don't have anything to wear," Clara argued, "All my dresses are back in Blackpool and even those would probably not be suitable for an event like this, especially if you say you're wearing your best suit. I'm going to be an embarrassment."

Malcolm raised his head and finally, for the first time since they had had sex in his office, he looked at her properly, obviously contemplating something. Eventually he sighed.

"Alright," he said, "Do you know what the proper attire for a charity event with a bunch of knobheaded politicians is?"

Reluctantly Clara shook her head.

"Fine," Malcolm exhaled sharply, "After work I'm taking you shopping. I believe we can file that under job expenses. But in return you will bring my suit to the cleaners and pick it up back."

Finally Clara was able to crack a smile. Maybe the remaining two months of her internship wouldn't be as bad as she had assumed they would be after what had happened in his office. They could go back to the way things had been before that.