Wild Child. Christy McKellen

hold out my hand. ‘Give it to me. I’ll take it to him. You shouldn’t have to be late for your dinner date just so he can have his new toy to play with.’

      ‘Don’t you have somewhere you need to be too?’ she asks with a guilty look in her eye.

      ‘Nah. I’m free as a bird tonight,’ I reply, flashing her a reassuring smile.

      I’m actually genuinely happy to help her out. She’s the only PA here who’s treated me like a person rather than Maxim Darlington-Hume’s nepotistically advantaged daughter. She’s also saved my arse a couple of times, catching silly mistakes I made in my first few days here, and has since taken me under her wing, giving up time during her lunch breaks to show me exactly how our perfectionist boss likes things done.

      ‘You’re an absolute angel!’ she says, relief lightening her voice.

      She passes me the parcel, then a Post-it note with a handwritten address on it. Benedict’s handwriting? I wonder. It’s neat and cursive, with a confident upstroke. Whoever wrote it was pressing the pen down firmly onto the paper, because as I run my fingers along the back I can feel the indentation of the words.

      ‘Enjoy your night,’ I add with a smile, before pulling on my coat.

      I certainly intend to enjoy mine.

      Back at my father’s house, I steam open the envelope and extract the small, neat box containing the newest release of the world’s most popular mobile phone, scoffing at his unoriginality.

      Going up to my bedroom, I toss the phone onto my bedside table, then pull open the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers. I rummage around until I find what I’m looking for, unable to suppress a grin as I imagine how he’s going to react when I deliver this into his large, capable hands.

      The thought arouses me so much I have to sit on my bed and take a few deep, calming breaths, feeling the insistent throb between my legs that’s been ever-present since that first incident on his desk intensify. My stomach jumps with nerves at the thought of what I’m about to do, but I fight the urge to chicken out.

      Instead I stand up and tuck the package firmly under my arm.

      Whatever happens from this point on, I’m pretty sure this is going to be a night I won’t ever forget.

      Benedict’s house isn’t far away from my father’s, on one of the picturesque leafy green squares in Kensington, and I walk quickly and confidently—despite my nerves—up the black-and-white chequered tile steps and ring the large brass buzzer. Like my father, he appears to own the entire house.

      By himself? I wonder, as it suddenly occurs to me that he might not be on his own this evening. Perhaps he has a housekeeper or a butler who will insist on taking the package to him, so I won’t get to hand it over myself.

      But before I can formulate an alternative plan the door swings open to reveal the man himself in all his glory. He’s dressed casually, in faded jeans and a black shirt that fits snugly across his broad shoulders. There are definitely some well-sculpted muscles hiding under there, I think as I stare up at him, my attention trapped by this vision of male perfection.

      Goosebumps rush across my skin as I take a moment to fully appreciate the magnificence of him. There’s something inherently virile about him—as if he oozes sex and power from every pore. I’m surprised he doesn’t have women throwing themselves at him everywhere he goes.

      But then, maybe he does.

      The thought sends a prickle of alarm up my spine, for some reason.

      ‘Maya. What can I do for you?’ he asks. He sounds a little wary, as if he thinks I’m here to cause mischief.

      Smart man.

      I reach under my arm and pull out the package I’ve carefully stuck back together to make it look as if it hasn’t been opened. ‘I have an urgent delivery from the office for you. I offered to bring it because I live so close,’ I say.

      He eyes me for a moment longer, as if waiting for the punchline, but when I don’t provide one he nods and holds out his hand. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘You’re welcome,’ I say, realising with a thump of fear that he might just take it and dismiss me on the doorstep—which means I’ll miss all the fun.

      ‘Could I use your bathroom?’ I ask hurriedly, making pleading eyes at him. ‘I’ve come straight from the office and I’m bursting.’

      I do a little jiggle for good measure, like a little kid might when she’s desperate for the loo. He doesn’t answer for a second, but then he seems to decide that he can’t be rude and refuse me entry—or perhaps he just doesn’t want me peeing myself on his doorstep—and steps back to let me inside.

      Accidentally on purpose, I forget to hand him the package on my mercy dash to the downstairs bathroom—which he shouts is the second door on the right—under the grand sweeping staircase. I scoot inside and lock the door, taking a few moments to calm my erratic breathing and check my reflection in the mirror.

      You’re strong, you’re in control, you’re capable of getting what you want, I tell myself, practising a composed smile in the mirror before flushing the loo and washing my hands, in case he’s listening out for it.

      I have a moment of terror as I contemplate what I’m about to do, but I know there’s no going back now. I want to go through with this. I need to.

       Okay. Show-time.

      Benedict

      I wait in my kitchen for Maya to reappear, not wanting her to find me hanging around in the hallway as if her presence here is unsettling me.

      Even though it is.

      What’s she playing at, turning up at my house like this? I’m uncomfortable with her being here in my personal sanctuary without any prior warning—especially since I seem to be having so much trouble keeping her out of my head when we’re at work.

      Not that I’m going to let her know that.

      I hear her footsteps and the bang of the door as she leaves the bathroom.

      ‘I’m in the kitchen,’ I shout, not wanting her to have an excuse to go snooping around my house.

      ‘Nice place,’ she coos as she enters, the parcel swinging loosely in her hand.

      ‘Can I have my package now?’ I ask with a wry smile, holding out my hand for it.

      ‘Sure.’ Holding it up, she wiggles it at me and wrinkles her nose, as if she’s only just realised she’s still holding it, and then strolls casually over to where I’m standing, thrusting it towards me when we’re close enough for it to pass between us.

      ‘It says “urgent” on the front, so it’s probably best if you open it right away,’ she points out.

      I swear I hear a slight hitch in her voice and I lock eyes with her, trying to read her expression for a sign of what kind of game she’s playing. My heart stutters in my chest as a whole host of unnerving possibilities rush through my head.

      ‘Just doing my job as your PA,’ she says breezily, though I’m sure she’s keenly aware of my suspicion that she’s here to do more than just fulfil an errand.