‘Great—it’s my first trip to London. I travel a lot but I’ve never been here.’ The buzz of excitement for exploring a new a city runs through my veins.
Perhaps that buzz is the reason Kit Faulkner’s stare seems to penetrate my clothes, even my skin, his tortured interest a slither of electricity swooping over to join the persistent throb between my legs.
From looks alone, a quick game with Kit Faulkner is something I’d normally consider. And if that hint of danger in Kit’s aura grows any bigger, burns any brighter, I’m doomed.
I uncross my legs while I breathe through the flutter of my pulse in my throat. I won’t go there. He’s too intense. Too...damaged. Too...consuming.
I don’t do relationships, so I have a radar for people only interested in casual. Instinct and the delicious thrumming between my legs tell me I’d walk away from Kit Faulkner’s bed not only saddle sore, but thoroughly mind-fucked too.
It’s those eyes...
Risk is stamped all over him—not the physical, adrenaline thrill I’m always up for, but the temptation to get sucked into those fathomless pools and the turmoil they conceal. That’s not me. Caring that much is the role of a long-term lover or a girlfriend and I’ve never been either.
I swivel my hips a fraction, pressing the seam of my jeans where I want it to stop me from becoming a cliché and succumbing to the dark, seductive stare thing he has going.
I force a polite, professional smile, willing my body to stand down from this unforeseen attraction to my new client. He’s still staring, brooding intensity and heat in his eyes even while he tries to intimidate me with his silent perusal.
My smile stretches. Does he expect me to crumble because he’s displayed how inconvenient he finds my presence? My lips twitch, controlled by a sense of perverse devilment.
I lift my eyebrows. ‘I am free tonight, by the way, and I love the theatre.’ A lie. I have nothing in my backpack I could wear to the theatre. I’m not the theatre type. I’m outdoorsy, sporty, adventurous—my parents’ generation would have labelled me a tomboy. But we don’t do labels in our family. Despite being older than most parents, mine are progressive, liberal and non-judgmental. The perfect parents for a couple of kids who don’t fit into any mould and who no one else wanted.
Kit works his jaw, ignoring my attempts to steer the conversation back to the job he’s paying me handsomely to complete. ‘Tell me, Mia...’ My name vibrates in his deep English voice. ‘Have you seen much of the city? Had time to explore?’
‘No. I arrived yesterday, and I’ll see enough of London while I work for you. I’m staying with my brother and his husband in Camden until I complete this contract, and then I’ll be moving on.’
Keep moving. Keep exploring. Keep free.
A blunt knife burrows between my ribs—old, rusty, predictable.
The prickle of restlessness that travelling normally helps me outrun returns. The irony that my job has brought me here, to a city of millions where one person, somewhere, is related to me by blood, twists my insides.
I breathe through the feeling, reminding myself that travelling the world beats putting down roots. A bird’s world view, not an oak tree’s.
Kit’s fathomless eyes still project a dichotomous vibe that veers from mild hostility to overt interest. Why is he angling to get rid of me? Does he dislike his perfectly amiable brother so much? Or perhaps he’s taken an instant dislike to my quirkiness. He needs to pick one emotion and stick to it, though. His indifference I can handle, but his seductive stare, which promises one thing and one thing only, grows harder to resist.
But resist I must.
‘Hmm...’ he says. ‘Well, perhaps I can pay the outstanding balance of your fee. You can leave today. Spend time with your family. See the sights London has to offer.’ He smiles then, for the first time, as if my acceptance of his generous but bizarre offer is a foregone conclusion. As if he’s used to getting his own way.
I bet he is. Well, some of us aren’t easily controlled.
I almost laugh, but I’ve already sniggered at his attempts to chase me off twice, so I’d best not push my luck. A Faulkner recommendation is worth more than it costs me to ignore Kit’s attitude. Intrigue adds to the other unexpected emotions that meeting him has unleashed.
What is he afraid of? What is he hiding?
Energy coils inside. I expected this job to be fun, but Kit’s added layer after layer of excitement to the mix until I’m practically trembling from the adrenaline in my bloodstream.
I shake my head slowly, a small smile dancing on my mouth. ‘I’m a professional film-maker, Mr Faulkner, with a reputation to uphold, a product to create and deliver. You and your brothers brought me in for a reason.’
No matter how much my libido wants this uncompromising Englishman, I’m no pushover. But he’s making this too easy, too much fun. I sit up straighter in the chair, all ready and raring to tackle Kit Faulkner head-on.
‘Fuck.’ He mutters under his breath, looking away. His fingers massage his brow as if seeking inspiration through telepathy and his jaw muscles bunch. At this rate he’ll have no enamel left. I take pity on him, my body’s reaction to the unforeseen chemistry between Kit Faulkner and me softening my response.
‘Why don’t you discuss the project with me, go over the Bounty Events company ethos, provide some creative pointers for the film?’
Instead of trying to sway things your way.
I have the brief Reid emailed to me memorised for today’s meeting: the Faulkner chain of small boutique hotels is synonymous with high-end luxury; lacking the grandeur of the big London hotels, they offer top-of-the-range luxury, exquisite catering and, if you can afford the services of Kit Faulkner’s partner company, Bounty Events, a menu of unique, once-in-a-lifetime experiences, overseen by the edible man still staring at me with impenetrable eyes.
Whatever he hopes to achieve with that look, the resultant effect is the trickle of heat through my blood, the rush usually reserved for when I’m airborne with my action camera strapped to my head.
‘I have a meeting now.’ He rises, dismissing me and makes his way to his uncluttered desk. ‘Your arrival this morning was...unscheduled.’
Controlling, arrogant...and grinding my usually laid-back gears. ‘Not for me. And not for your brothers.’
He focuses on his laptop as if deaf to my comeback, the epitome of eye candy if you’re into the haughty, crisp businessman type. The suit trousers fit him like a bespoke shield of armour, cupping his muscular arse and thick thighs. The shirt, although a little creased where he’s sat in his executive leather chair, is expensive enough it could probably walk around this office on its own and he emanates power, wealth, culture, as sure as the outright aloofness he’s wafting my way.
My tapping fingers pick up the pace—my worst habit, one that tells me I’ve been sitting for too long and need to get moving. I press them flat, cross my legs and force myself to enjoy his plush leather armchair, prolonging the showdown.
A battle of wills...?
Well, if you insist, Mr Faulkner.
He must sense his brush-off hasn’t achieved the likely intended goal—me scuttling from his office like a frightened mouse. He turns from his laptop screen, looking at me over one broad shoulder.
‘So I can’t persuade you to take the money and run?’
If this were any other city, if Kit hadn’t tried to control this from the outset, I might have been tempted to take his offer. I arch a brow in his direction. ‘I’m here to stay until the work is complete.’
With one last