Resisting the Brit

by Blair, Emelia

  Then, without warning, Lana reaches out and presses the intercom. “Hanna, can you book me a hotel room for the rest of the week?”

  “A hotel room?” I ask, frowning.

  Lana leans into her chair, then rubs her temples as if fighting off a brewing headache. “My family has a habit of ambushing me. Fred, Dad, or one of my brothers will probably be waiting at my place to talk some sense into me.”

  My face must darken because she shrinks back a little.

  “I have a penthouse you can crash in,” I say, the offer coming out before I can even think about it. “I don’t stay there. It’s fully furnished and stocked.”

  Lana shakes her head. “I’m not going to inconvenience you like that. A hotel is fine.”

  “Lana.”

  She stiffens when I use her name, her eyes settling on me like a chastised child. I raise a brow. “Take the penthouse. I guarantee it will have better security than whatever hotel room you get.”

  When she looks like she has a number of protests on her lips, I push her, “Even tracking you to a hotel is easy. You’ll be completely secure at my place.”

  Lana’s shoulders droop. She refuses to meet my eyes as she says in a defeated voice, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Because I like you. And seeing you like this bothers me. Purely selfish reasons,” I assure her.

  A blush streaks across her cheeks, and I watch its descent into her blouse before raising my eyes to meet hers.

  “You’re not making this easy,” she says accusingly, and I give her an innocent smile.

  “I don’t plan to make it easy.”

  We’re both aware of the double meaning of our words. She glares, frustrated at the stubbornness I’ve decided to adopt.

  The resulting silence allows Lana to gather her thoughts. She presses her lips together before asking, “Are you really planning to leave as early as possible?”

  My faint smile grows broader as satisfaction thrums through my soul.

  Not good at hiding your feelings… are you, Lana? I think almost fondly.

  “Depends,” I say vaguely. The way her nose scrunches in obvious displeasure at my ambiguous reply is adorable, like a hissing kitten.

  This time, I lean over and press the intercom, my gaze on Lana. “Hanna, Miss Hill doesn’t need the hotel room anymore. Thank you.”

  Pretty eyes widening, she reaches for the intercom, then we’re both scrabbling over it until I put it out of her reach with a triumphant smirk.

  “Asshole.” She scowls before she can control herself, and I burst into laughter as she turns red, realizing what she’s just called her boss.

  “Charming,” I tease, still laughing while she sits there looking mortified.

  “Let me take you out to dinner,” I say suddenly, and she stills.

  “What?”

  “Dinner,” I repeat, refusing to back down. “And I’ll drop you off at the penthouse afterward.”

  “I have to collect my things from my place, at least some.” She tries to back out of my invitation, and I realize I might be walking into potential heartbreak, but I can’t not try.

  “I’ll go with you. We’ll make an evening out of it.”

  Lana seems to struggle internally, and she shifts in her seat before saying, “It’s not a date.”

  “Of course not.” I’m exceedingly polite, hiding the sting of her words, yet understanding them.

  A knock on the door has us both swinging around toward the door as it opens.

  Valerie surveys our intimate position. Lana sits in her chair, and I’m leaning next to her against the desk. Val fixes her eyes on me. “Mr. Warte is here to see you.”

  More curiosity flickers over her features. From my peripheral vision, I see Lana slide her chair closer to me. I glance down to confirm it, then look at Valerie. “Thanks, Val. I’ll be right up.”

  Nodding, Valerie leaves. I study Lana, who appears unsettled.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  She opens her mouth, but closes it before turning her head away. “Nothing.”

  But I see her helpless jealousy before she can conceal it. If nothing, it just fuels my hope that maybe I have more than just a chance.

  “I’ll see you at seven,” I say.

  Before walking into my interview with Siemens Warte, I tell Valerie to inform Elise that no member of Lana’s family is to be allowed within the building.

  * * *

  A few hours later, I’m standing in the center of Lana’s apartment, which is so different from the image she portrays to everyone. Splashes of color are everywhere, even on the mismatched furniture in an odd variety of shades. An armchair that is positively hideous, but obviously well loved. A fridge adorned with drawings made by children, which have been gifted to ‘Ant Lana’.

  I stroll through the apartment. It’s not huge, but it’s cozy. As I pause to stand in the middle of the living area, with a coffee table surrounded by two armchairs, a long sofa, and a television, I can almost see Lana curled on the bright pink sofa with a tub of ice cream in her hands as she settles in for a quiet evening.

  The mental imagery is so pleasant I suddenly have a yearning to share that with her, to walk into the scene, toss off my coat, and force her grumbling form up so I can hold her in my arms.

  Loneliness? I muse, opening my eyes to see the empty room. But it’s only Lana I can see myself doing these things with. No one else.

  Spotting a romance novel on its side under the coffee table, and I kneel to pick it up. It has a racy cover with a full-breasted heroine wrapped around a smoldering male who seems inches away from kissing her.

  I grin.

  So, Lana likes these sorts of books?

  The sound I hear from behind me is something akin to a screech. I jump, the book falling from my hands onto the table. Whirling around, I see a horrified Lana dive toward it. She grabs it, hiding it behind her back as if the very gesture would erase my memory.

  Her face is beyond red. “That’s not— I don’t— Don’t snoop.”

  “I most certainly am not,” I say with dignity. “It was simply there. I just happened to pick it up.”

  Lana eyes me suspiciously before retreating into her bedroom to continue packing. To my disappointment, she takes the book with her.

  “Does this mean I shouldn’t make myself at home?” I call after her. To my amusement, her response back is rather unflattering.

  I prowl through the two-bedroom apartment, eager to learn as much as I can about this woman who is as prickly as a porcupine. Where others might find her behavior toward me rude, I can’t help but be charmed as she gives me an inch and then fights me off when I try to take a mile.

  There’s a knock on the door. With a shrug, I decide to answer it.

  It’s a good-looking man who seems like he belongs in a country club with his spotless white T-shirt and Bermuda shorts. He hand is lifted, caught in the attempt to knock again. The only thing he’s missing is a tennis racquet, I think with disdain.

  “Y-e-s?” I drawl out icily.

  The man looks startled at seeing me. “Uh, is Lana here?”

  He tries to peek around me, but I pull myself up to my full height to block his view. Suddenly seeing him as a threat to my nonexistent, one-sided relationship with Lana, I say, “She’s busy. Maybe I can help you.”

  I make sure the words sound ominous, and they’ve clearly made an impact as the man before me wilts.

  Weak, I think with disgust.

  Then, he pulls himself together, swallows, and tries to appear brave. “I want to see Lana.”

  I lean against the doorjamb, possessiveness rearing its dark head. “Like I said, she’s busy.”

  At that moment, the woman being sought out chooses to make an appearance. “Oliver, who’s at the door?”

  I feel small hands push me aside. Reluctantly, I let myself be maneuvered out of the way. However, Lana is now pressed to my side in what can only be perceived as an intimate manner. I make no move
to give her space. She doesn’t ask me to, either, her attention on the man at the door.

  “Sid, hey. What is it?”

  Sid looks uncomfortable. “If you’re busy right now.” He shoots me a look, which screams that he prefers privacy. I choose not to try to interpret it.

  Lana is snug against me in a way that makes me want to wrap my arm around her. Draw her in even more. She bestows a kind smile on Sid, and it annoys me to no end.

  “I’m afraid I’m in the middle of something right now, but if it’s important…” When she trails off, Sid looks even more wrecked, clearly believing he interrupted a date.

  Far be it for me to prove him wrong.

  I just stand there smugly, pinning him to the spot with my gaze and enjoying the way he’s stammering.

  “It’s nothing. I mean, I had to ask you something, but it can wait.” He almost runs away, and Lana seems confused as she shuts the door.

  “I wonder what’s wrong with him.” Clearly puzzled, she notes my irked expression. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  She plants herself in front of me, and I realize she’s not wearing her glasses. “You’re sulking. I’d like to know why.”

  I swallow, my throat suddenly feeling dry. “It’s nothing.”

  She presses her lips into a thin line, then says sarcastically, “Really? Then why do you look like you want to smash something against the wall?”

  “Maybe that’s just you?” I suggest stubbornly. “You could be reflecting.”

  She takes a step back, still studying me, then shrugs. “Fine, don’t tell me. It’s not like—”

  “You’re nice to everyone. You have this special smile for everyone you see except me,” I blurt out, horrified at how petulant I sound.

  She’s staring now. “What do you mean by ‘special smile’?”

  But I see the rising guilt in her eyes, and I know she’s aware of what I’m talking about.

  It’s like a push and pull with her.

  I take a step back. “Never mind.”

  Her lips part, then she gives me a strange look before retreating into her bedroom.

  I wait by the door, my mood soured. When she walks out, I refuse to make eye contact with her.

  The drive to the penthouse passes by in silence. When Lana switches her phone to silent mode, I ask, “Your family?”

  “They’re all calling me in turns,” Lana replies bitterly, staring out the window at the passing scenery.

  “How long do you think you can avoid them?” The question is practical, and she can sense it.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I need some time to understand what’s happening.” After a dark chuckle, she says, “Would serve them right if I ended up marrying some guy who isn’t from their list of candidates. If I just show up one day with a ring on my finger.”

  My fingers clench on the steering wheel at the image even as I keep my voice carefully neutral. “That would be a hasty decision.”

  “Yeah.” She sighs, then relapses into forlorn silence.

  Even in a state of misery, Lana glows, her beauty radiant, her spirit fiery. She’s an untamable force of nature, and I want her for my own. I finally allow myself to give in to my desire. At the very least, I admit to myself that I’m pining after this woman like a lovestruck fool.

  It makes no sense.

  I was never one to believe in falling for someone so quickly. Even with Nyla, I had dated her extensively, gotten to know her, fallen in love with her, and then married her.

  But with Lana, it’s just—she’s fire and heat and defiance, all rolled into one breath. She challenges me, makes my blood stir, and throws up barriers I find myself tearing down in an attempt to get to her. She’s made me fall hopelessly in love with her.

  From the corner of my eye, I regard her, trying to drag her into conversation for any chance to hear her sultry tone. “How did you like dinner?”

  “I was expecting something fancy,” she scoffs, but not unhappily. “Not a pizza joint.”

  I give a small smile. “I thought you would prefer comfort food rather than a three-course meal.”

  She shifts toward me then, slight surprise in her eyes. Her tone is soft. “Yeah. It did help. Thanks.”

  I meet her gaze with a warm one of my own. “Good.”

  After a few moments of seemingly being lost in her thoughts, she says, “When Caleb told me about you, I had this image of you in my head.”

  “Yes?” I find myself curious.

  “Yeah, a haughty aristocrat, who likes tea and crumpets at four in the evening like clockwork and turns his nose up at anything remotely resembling fast food.”

  Seeing the mischief in her eyes from the rearview mirror, I say drily, “Well, I’m sorry to burst your bubble of the British stereotype.”

  “No, it’s okay,” she soothes, as if I’ve actually committed some horrific grievance and she chooses to forgive me out of the kindness of her heart. “It’s no big deal.”

  “And I’ll sleep better for it.”

  She snorts at my sardonic words.

  Not that she gets a chance to say anything because I pull the car into an underground parking lot, which has heavy security and bright lights. “Well, we’re here.”

  10

  Lana

  The penthouse is on a sprawling floor that looks like it came out from a movie scene with its glamour and sterile appearance. It has two bedrooms, attached to a massive living area, kitchen, and dining room.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Oliver why he’s taken up Caleb on his offer for accommodations when I see his posture. He’s lurking around the foyer, a certain stiffness to his form that hadn’t been there before.

  “Come on,” he says, his previous friendliness in the car having evaporated. “I’ll give you the tour.” He strides quickly, his long legs covering more distance, and I’m forced to keep up with him.

  “You won’t be disturbed,” he shoots my way, the unforgiving expression on his face growing heavier by the second. I’m starting to feel unsettled.

  Is he mad at me for something?

  He’s talking, his smoky accent curling around his vowels in that elegant way, a certain harshness to his tone, and I firm my jaw. If I did something, I’d rather he tell me now.

  I can handle it.

  “Oliver.”

  He’s not listening.

  I reach out and grab at his wrist, stopping him from moving.

  He freezes, then peers over his shoulder. “What?”

  “Why’re you angry?”

  He blinks. Suddenly, I realize I might have miscalculated. There’s no anger in his tone, just a creeping, deep-rooted sadness he’s hiding behind sharp tones.

  “Never mind,” I say hastily.

  However, he doesn’t move, and I realize I’m still holding his wrist.

  Blushing, I let go.

  He slows down considerably. Before I know it, he’s handing me the keys.

  “I’ve informed Ray. He’s the housekeeper. He also has your number, and he’ll contact you before showing up. You need anything, you give me a call.”

  He’s standing near the doorway now, his posture screaming he desperately wants to leave.

  It’s this place, I realize. He hates this place.

  However, I have things to say, and I don’t want him to leave until I’ve said them.

  Taking a deep breath, I meet his gaze, a depth of emotion in my eyes. “You didn’t have to do any of this, you know.”

  “I know,” he says simply.

  “I’m not entirely ill mannered,” I say with a faint smile. “I do appreciate this. Not just to you for letting me stay here, but also for your company. It kind of calmed me down.”

  There’s a teasing glint in his eyes now. “I have that effect on people.”

  My smile matches his. His eyes drop to my lips, and I feel my heartbeat pick up when he takes a step toward me.

  Is he going to kiss me?

  Do I want him to?


  The effort it takes him to rips his attention away from my slightly parted lips is evident, and there is slight regret and want in his eyes. But he steps back. “Sleep well, Lana. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

  My car is still at the office.

  I watch him leave, and I can’t get past the staggering sense of loss.

  My complicated feelings for this man who runs hot and cold, who’s snarling one moment and then so unbearably kind I melt at his feet, are growing and evolving. I’ve never felt like this, so out of control.

  And it makes it worse that while Oliver isn’t hiding his interest in me, his desire for more, he refuses to push me. It just makes me stumble, trying to sort through my own head.

  I’d walked into his office, determined to hate the man who would be the one to unravel the company, punishing employees for the past CEO’s deeds, and my determination to despise him changed into intrigue and annoyance, which, along the way, evolved into desire and confusion.

  I want him, yet I’m scared of so many obstacles: my job, my family, myself.

  I busy myself with unpacking. As I’m putting on a T-shirt to sleep in, I glimpse a photo of a smiling redheaded woman tucked on the dressing table, just barely out of sight.

  Lifting it, I study her pretty features. She’s stunning, and I realize who she is.

  Holding the frame in my hand, I sink onto the soft bed, staring at it.

  Nyla Thornton.

  She’s smiling at the photographer, delight in her eyes, and I wonder why someone whose husband seemed to cherish her so much chose to abandon him.

  I know Oliver isn’t perfect. He’s grouchy and unpleasant without his morning coffee. He’s prone to glaring, growling, and snarling. But underneath all that, he has a soft heart, a sense of justice, a kindness he tries to hide, but isn’t entirely able to. He occasionally has a protective streak I’ve glimpsed. I’ve seen it in the way he treats Elise, making sure to ask after her every day, in the way he treated me today.

  He’s an enigma, a puzzle I can’t solve.

  I return the photograph to the dresser, then, without a second thought, I turn it face-down, not wanting to see the face of the woman who had ripped Oliver’s heart to tatters