Under His Skin

by Nicola Marsh

  ‘That guy you saw on the way out? He’s my new manager for the recording studio. So I can come with you sometimes when you hit the road. If you still want me too...’ She trailed off, her babbling cut off by the shock bracketing his open mouth. ‘All that stuff I said when you asked me to go with you still stands. This studio is my dream, and I want it to flourish, but this week has been hell without you regardless of my musical success so I want to be with the man I...love.’

  She almost whispered the last word but he heard. To her relief his face relaxed and his lips eased into a goofy grin.

  ‘You love me.’ A statement, not a question, reverent and not smug in the slightest. ‘That’s great, because I love you too, and I came around to tell you I’ve promoted Rick so I can stay around in Melbourne for longer periods.’

  Hope flung herself at him and smothered his face with smoochy kisses, laughing and almost crying at the same time. Her heart ached with joy as he wrapped his arms around her waist, picked her up and swung her around until they were both breathless.

  ‘Are you for real?’ He lowered her carefully until her feet touched the floor but didn’t release his clamp-hold on her waist.

  ‘Yeah, I wanted to be with you, and sticking to my principles born of fear would’ve left me heartbroken,’ she said, basking in the wondrous affection from his steady gaze. ‘And before you ask, yeah, I’m a big old scaredy-cat when it comes to trusting people. My parents lied about my trust fund for years. My first serious boyfriend was faking his feelings to get an interview with my parents and broke my heart in the process to the point where I deliberately sabotaged any possible relationship since. And my oldest musician friend, Harry, who I’ve mentioned before, plagiarised my songs after I’d confided in him for years.’

  Concern quickly gave way to outrage in his expressive eyes. ‘Is that the real reason you didn’t agree to hit the road with me, because you don’t trust me?’

  She bit her bottom lip and nodded. ‘The thing is, I’ve learned to trust myself. At some point, I need to take a chance on my feelings again and I want to do that with you.’ She paused, hoping he understood the enormity of what she was telling him. ‘I may need you to be patient with me, because it’s hard for me to trust anyone implicitly. But I know you love me, and I feel the same way about you, so let’s do this.’

  He placed a hand over her heart. ‘You can trust me. I won’t let you down.’

  ‘You’d better not,’ she said, giving him a playful shove. ‘Thanks to my past I’ve been so fixated on my trust issues and fears that I didn’t realise I don’t have to give up my independence to be with you, I just need to tweak it a little.’

  He nodded. ‘And I figured that relinquishing control of my company doesn’t mean my world will become dependent on you. And that I’m more fearful of failing at a relationship than making an actual commitment.’

  ‘We’re a couple of goofballs,’ she said, unable to keep a grin off her face. ‘You know that, right?’

  ‘I also know I love you and I’m sticking around to prove it.’

  He cupped her face and lowered his lips to hers in a tender sweep that left her blinking furiously to stem the flow of tears.

  ‘We’re going to be together,’ she murmured, awestruck that this incredible man was all hers. ‘All the time. On the road and here. Think you can handle that?’

  ‘Yeah, babe, I can handle anything with you by my side.’ He slid his hands lower to caress her butt. ‘And I’m thinking of getting a grip on this handling thing starting now.’

  EPILOGUE

  One year later

  FROM THE SOCIAL PAGES, Yorkshire Gazette.

  The esteemed Mr And Mrs McWilliams of Hedge Manor, along with renowned Australian comedian Stephen Holmes, were proud parents at the nuptials of their children yesterday.

  Hope McWilliams, raised in Yorkshire but residing in Melbourne for the last six years, wore a strapless ivory chiffon dress embossed with tiny silver treble clefs as she wed Australian construction tycoon Logan Holmes.

  Logan, a native of Rally-Doo, a small rural town in outback Victoria, surprised his wife with a serenade of her hit song ‘Yearning’ at a small reception at the McWilliams estate.

  Five-hundred-pounds-a-bottle champagne flowed freely alongside boutique Australian beers, while guests dined on beef Wellington, fish and chips, fruit pavlova and Tim Tam cheesecake. A true melding of cultures indeed.

  White lilies, pink roses and Australian natives blended seamlessly as table centrepieces, while potted eucalypts decorated the entrances. A local band, started by the late Harry Remme over a decade ago, played a foot-tapping mix of original jazz and pop tunes, some of which were written by the bride, who has gifted copyright to the band.

  ‘Harry fostered my love of music for many years and I’m proud that his band continues his legacy in singing some of my songs,’ the bride said.

  Guests danced the night away before retreating to their rooms in the manor.

  The newly wed Mrs Hope Holmes also had this to say: ‘This has been the happiest day of my life. I’m so glad I followed my heart to Australia and found this amazing man. He’s my home, my love, my everything.’

  At that point the groom, Logan Holmes, burst into a rousing rendition of his wife’s newest hit ‘Love of my Life’ that didn’t leave a dry eye in the house.

  Melbourne Morning Chronicle:

  Fresh from a tour of London following a family wedding, popular comedian Stephen Holmes has announced an upcoming project with his son, construction king Logan Holmes.

  After acquiring prime land on the outskirts of Melbourne’s CBD, Logan’s company will construct a state-of-the-art, purpose-built comedy club to showcase up-and-coming young talent.

  Stephen, a veteran of the stand-up scene in Australia, will personally mentor the comedians lucky enough to be a part of this venture.

  A proud Logan had this to say about his father: ‘Dad pursued his dream when it was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, and I’m so proud of him now for fostering the dreams of others. I’ll be in the front row on opening night for all his shows and those of his protégés.’

  When asked for a comment, Stephen said this: ‘While I love my job, and am looking forward to this new challenge, Logan is my greatest achievement. He makes me smile better than any joke I could ever tell, and I’m looking forward to coming up with some new, innovative knock-knock jokes to tell my first grandchild.’

  Hope chuckled and stabbed at the article in the paper. ‘Is your dad trying to tell us something?’

  ‘He’s turned into a sentimental old fool,’ Logan said, snatching the paper from her and rolling it up before gently tapping her naked butt with it. She loved their Sunday morning lie-ins, when the glorious Melbourne sun poured through the blinds and bathed them in warmth. ‘Besides, it’s not his fault he doesn’t know that we intend on doing a lot of practice first before we get to the baby-making stage.’

  ‘Practice is fun.’ Hope wiggled her eyebrows and winked at her husband. ‘How about another session?’

  He picked up the sheet and glanced under it. ‘It’s only been five minutes but give me another two to recover and you’ve got a deal, Mrs Holmes.’

  ‘Lucky me.’ She batted her eyelashes and snuggled into him, revelling in their total skin-to-skin contact.

  ‘I’m the lucky one,’ he said, brushing soft kisses across her eyelids, the tip of her nose and finally her lips.

  ‘You are my world,’ he whispered against her mouth, his breath tickling her lips.

  With her heart full to bursting, she started humming her song with the same title. His eyes lit up because he knew. Every song she wrote, every word she sang, was about him and for him.

  The love of her life.

  Her muse, her partner, her husband, her world.

  Lucky, indeed.

  * * *


  If you liked Under His Skin, why not try

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  Keep reading for an excerpt from Good Girl by Christy McKellen.

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  Good Girl

  by Christy McKellen

  CHAPTER ONE

  Juno

  ALESSANDRO RICCI IS phenomenal in bed.

  At least that’s what I’ve heard other people say about him. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t know, for two reasons: firstly, I’m a virgin, and secondly, he refused to sleep with me when I asked him to.

  It wasn’t my finest hour.

  The first time we met was at my father’s fiftieth birthday party. Even amongst the plethora of filthy rich, gregariously glamorous socialites that had been invited he stood out like the Sirius star system on a clear night.

  I was making my way, head ducked, through the throng of partygoers to a quiet corner to hide out for a while, needing a break from the excruciating, polite conversation that my bully of a father demanded I make with his friends and associates, when my shoulder bumped against something solid and unyielding. Turning to flash whomever it was a look of apology, my gaze locked with a dazzling pair of eyes and my whole world came to a screeching halt, air whooshing from my lungs and a wave of heat rushing up my neck to flood my face.

  You see Alessandro Ricci isn’t just handsome—he’s beautiful. Stop-you-in-your-tracks, steal-your-words beautiful. His features appear to be perfectly symmetrical, though I know that’s not physiologically possible. No one’s face is perfect. But he’s as close to perfection as you can get. His bone structure looks as though it’s been carved by a master sculptor; every feature of his face is exactly the right shape and size. As if someone’s taken the best bits of all the most attractive men in the world and put them together to create him.

  And his body. It was enthralling to behold. Broad shoulders tapering down to narrow hips and long, athletic legs. He was a good few inches taller than me, and I’m no shorty, so I guessed he was well over six foot. He was wearing an exquisitely tailored suit, which clung to his body like it loved him, and a crisp white shirt open at the collar to reveal a V of tanned olive skin and just the merest promise of dark, downy hair on his muscular chest.

  If you asked me to produce an image of the picture-perfect male figure, he’s exactly what I’d draw.

  Caught in that moment, like a wraith between worlds, I found it intensely difficult to look at him—he was that dazzling—but at the same time I couldn’t bring myself to look away.

  He in turn looked back at me—or rather assessed me—as if he was stripping me naked with his eyes.

  Those incredible eyes.

  It makes my body rush with a prickly sort of heat just to think about them now. They were a bright, iridescent green that seemed to glow with a deep, secret knowledge. As though he knew exactly what to do to me to turn me into a gibbering wreck. Instinctively I knew they’d be things I’d never experienced before. Hot, dirty, sinful things.

  My whole body throbbed with an unfamiliar sensation that made me clench my trembling hands into fists in an attempt to centre myself.

  No one has ever made me feel like that before. Not even Adam.

  I’m sure it’s something Alessandro must do to all women, though. According to the people I’ve asked about him, he’s reputedly a world-class seducer and an incorrigible playboy but, even so, when he smiled at me like that it made me feel somehow special and most unusually—attractive. I’ve always been compared unfavourably to my beautiful older sisters—I know I appear washed out and pale in comparison to them, like a photo that’s faded in the sun—and this knowledge has rather knocked my confidence when it comes to attracting men.

  I do have one outstanding feature, though—my hair, which reaches all the way down to the middle of my back and is a warm chestnut colour. But, honestly, I’ve never really liked it. It makes me stand out too much. I like to be able to position myself quietly on the sidelines and watch what’s going on around me rather than thrusting myself right into the middle of things like Maya and April do.

  I know—logically, and away from Sandro’s mesmerising charisma—that the whole encounter had been a purely physical reaction I’d had to his pheromones, rather than a cerebral connection. I’m usually attracted to someone for their intelligence and enterprise rather than something as superficial as their looks—but it hasn’t stopped me from still wanting things from him.

  Wanting him to do things to me.

  What exactly those things are, I’m not entirely sure, but I’d bet my first-class degree he’d know exactly what to do to push my buttons. He certainly had that air about him, as if he’d been born with the ability to give women pleasure and was more than happy to utilise it.

  The scientist in me makes me suspect he�
�d make a fascinating anthropological study subject.

  Anyway, after I finally managed to pull myself away from his tractor-beam gaze, I hid away in the nearest bathroom and attempted to bring my racing heartbeat under control. Staring at my flushed face in the mirror, I thought about the way he’d looked at me with such intense interest that I’d felt the sensual effect of it all the way down deep inside me. It had made my blood thrum and my skin goose-bump and I’d had a sudden impulsive craving to master that skill myself. As I reflected on how powerful having this ability would make me feel, a germ of an idea began to form in my mind.

  After recently living through the pain of being rejected by the man I’ve had a planet-sized crush on for the past year—a man who has one of the greatest minds of our time and with whom I’m lucky enough to work alongside in the cardiovascular research department at St George’s University of London—I’d decided it was finally time to do something about my sexual immaturity. I had to stop letting life happen to me and actively do something about getting what I wanted. I needed to ‘woman up’, as my sister Maya would say, no matter how terrifying the idea of that was. And here, in Alessandro Ricci, I just might have found the perfect person to help me.

  So that, my patient friend, is how Sandro came to take a starring role in the sorry tale of my mortifyingly misjudged attempt to lose my virginity.

  * * *

  It happened at a private party in Chelsea.

  It’s not the sort of place you’ll usually find me on a Saturday night. Most weekends I’ll either be at home working on my PhD thesis, or hanging out with a friend, eating fine food and having involved conversations about the state of the world. So walking through a dark, sultry room writhing with half-naked bodies all gyrating to a thumping dance track was definitely not on my usual ‘things to do on a weekend’ agenda.

  Maya had given me the tip-off that Alessandro was going to be at the party that night after I’d confided in her about my interest in him and she’d suggested it might be a good place to catch up with him. She’d warned me that it definitely wouldn’t be my usual scene, but I’d assured her that it was probably the ideal setting for what I had in mind. There would no doubt be a dark and seductive atmosphere and I’d hoped it’d provide an opportunity for me to get close to him with the bare minimum of conversation required.