by JC Harroway
The tension in my shoulders dissipates and I collect my watch from the counter and strap it in place. She’s glaringly uninterested in anything beyond the deal we brokered, so I don’t have to worry about her becoming unrealistically attached to what is just great sex. She played her part beautifully. And now I have to pay up. I move to the door and indicate she follow me. ‘Shall we?’
She stares, clearly pondering my proposal, as if she expects me to strip again and invite her into my bed. Tempting. But she’s already turned me down once this morning. I do have some ego.
And I’m a man of my word. It’s work time.
Mia follows me downstairs, her gaze flicking around the spacious home that is too big for just Bob and me—one of the reasons I’ve converted the lower ground floor into offices for Bounty Events.
‘It’s massive.’ She emits a breathy little sigh, one that reminds me of her coming last night.
I shrug. ‘Four floors.’ Prime Chelsea real estate. Worth millions.
The restlessness that only vanishes when I’m fucking, or thinking about fucking, returns with a vengeance, shunting my shoulders north. I should sell the place, live out my existence on a canal boat. Just me and Bob. But would the memories stay a fixture of these walls? Sold on to the highest bidder and left behind with the alarm system and the contemporary chandeliers? Or would they follow me wherever I went? My regret has a million triggers—I suspect I’d simply carry all my baggage with me.
As we descend, she says, ‘Can I smell chlorine?’ Her cute freckled nose wrinkles and her eyes widen.
‘Yes, there’s a pool.’ My cock twitches, banishing unwanted reflections. ‘Fancy a dip?’ I can’t help myself—Mia is hypnotising. Perhaps it’s her boundless energy, her no-bullshit attitude. Perhaps it’s her secrets which intrigue me, as if I’m a sick bastard who’s glad he’s not alone with his mistakes and shame, recognising a kindred spirit who, despite appearances, hasn’t quite got their shit together.
My smile drops as a familiar heat creeps beneath my skin. I shouldn’t care about unearthing her layers. Focus on the sex—that’s all it can be.
She does a great haughty as she looks down at me on the stair below her but there are flickers of excitement in her stare. ‘Not right now, thanks.’
Promising—I’d say she’s giving my proposal some serious consideration.
We traverse the glass tunnel that overlooks the small rear garden, the persistent lure of last night’s intimacies dogging our steps. The flush at the base of her throat tells me she’s equally aware of the effect we have on each other.
Bet she’s regretting not joining me in the shower now.
In the office, I make introductions. Sally, one of my loyal, hard-working team of two, hands me a tablet with the schedule for this week and I direct Mia through the French doors that lead to the immaculate, postage-stamp garden my gardener keeps trim and shipshape. Bob curls up on his bed in the sunniest corner of the patio and succumbs to a snooze.
When we’re seated close, but not too close, I slide the schedule Mia’s way. ‘These are some of the things we offer Faulkner guests.’ I lean back to appreciate the way the sun reveals glints of fire in her hair and renders her white T-shirt partly see-through. Not that I need X-ray vision or any help from Mother Nature. Mia’s perfect nipples are etched into my brain, along with other tasty images that provide an erotic film reel of last night’s highlights. I run my index finger and thumb along my bottom lip while she scrolls through the screen, a small furrow between her brows.
Then her eyes light up, delivering another slug of potent blood to my groin. ‘Can we do that?’ She leans in. Her scent wafts over me, escaped strands of her hair brushing my arm, and I reach for the device, deliberately ensuring our fingers touch.
The thing that’s caught her eye is one of our standard packages. A private helicopter tour of London’s iconic landmarks that will set you back a few thousand pounds. It’s one of our most popular experiences and a good place to start for the promotional video she’s making.
I shrug. ‘Sure. Drink?’
She smiles like I’ve handed her a two-carat diamond and nods. ‘Some water would be good.’
I move to the small outdoor bar underneath the awning and select two bottles of frigid mineral water and a glass for Mia.
‘So tell me your vision for this project? I see your eyes light up at the thought of this,’ I indicate the tablet screen she’s still scrolling down, ‘but Bounty is more than just exhilaration. It’s all about the sell, the luxury, the lure of decadence.’ And Mia Abbott is as down-to-earth, as unaffected by appearances and trappings as any woman I’ve ever met. What does think-outside-the-box Mia have planned for one of London’s most exclusive, privately owned chains of boutique hotels?
She pours the water into the glass and takes a sip, eyes challenging me over the rim. ‘I know what it is you do at Bounty, and I visited all the hotels this morning.’
‘All of them?’ She has been busy.
She tilts her head, watching me closely. ‘Of course—I’m here to work, not laze around in bed.’
Her reference shunts my temperature higher, but it’s the heat of arousal, the reminder she could have woken up with me, sleepy and well-fucked; joined me in the shower...
My shoulders tense at the feeling that we’ve been short-changed of morning sex.
‘They’re all very elegant, luxurious—I’m impressed.’
I grin. That the family business impresses her stirs something in my gut. A restlessness. And the urge to find other ways to impress this enigmatic woman.
‘Thank you. You’re well-travelled. I’m sure you see a lot of hotels.’
She nods, taking another sip of water. We’re sitting side-on to each other, and so it’s then that I notice the small tattoo on the back of her neck, just below her hairline. Forgoing the urge to ask about it, I drone on about work, although I’d rather get to know Mia.
I take a swig of my own drink, the cool liquid doing little to dampen either my ardour for this woman or my burning curiosity. I want to hear her ideas. I want to see the woman I’ve witnessed in her YouTube videos, albeit predominantly behind the camera. The one with a clear passion for travelling and exploring and capturing the world on film. The one who is always on the move, even if it’s just her damned fidgeting fingers...
She nods. ‘I’ve taken some stills of the exterior and the communal interior areas. And Reid sent me the company media pack, so I have a sense of where the Faulkner Group sits in the market.’
She’s done her homework. Time for me to do mine. And I have the rest of the day to unearth Mia.
‘Of course I want to focus on the luxury—the once-in-a-lifetime experiences you offer,’ she points at the tablet, ‘like this. But I’ve also read Bounty Events’ company website and, correct me if I’m wrong, my impression is that anything goes for the clients, right?’
I nod. If you want it and can afford it, I’ll make it happen. ‘As long as it’s legal.’
She smiles, torching those eyes once more. She clasps her hands together on the table in front of her. Even now, one index finger taps on the back of her hand. I want to pull those fidgety fingers into my hand, to still their constant fluttering. I curl my own hands on my thighs.
‘So I really want to show that. Film as many locations and experiences as possible, perhaps including some of the more...obscure attractions London has to offer.’
She’s warmed to her subject, her voice hitching slightly as it had last night, seconds before orgasm.
‘Such as?’ I know London like the back of my hand. I grew up at the Faulkner Hotel, Cromwell Road. I studied Luxury Brand Management at Goldsmiths and, until recently, I lived, breathed and relished the travel and adventure lifestyle at the heart of Bounty Events. Can this unconventional woman from a country on the other side of the world of only four million peopl
e add a fresh eye to what’s long been a stale enterprise for me?
Mia leans her elbows on the table, her T-shirt stretching across her chest. ‘I’ve done some research. There are all these cool, secret places most tourists never hear about. Yes, we can film at the London Eye et cetera, but wouldn’t it be awesome to include one or two of these lesser-known places, to show that whatever you want, no matter how niche, the Faulkner can give it you?’
‘Tell me.’ Her eyes sparkle now, and it’s not just the sunlight.
‘Well, did you know you can spend the night at the Natural History Museum? And there’s Europe’s oldest surviving surgical theatre in Southwark—it’s a museum now but they offer lectures on Victorian surgery and you can privately hire the venue.’
Her enthusiasm burrows through the ambivalence I’ve worn longer than I care to remember. We have a client’s birthday party planned at the Faulkner tomorrow. I’ll speak to the customer, check he’s okay with an extra guest and a few discreet photos, although in my experience most of my clients relish any opportunity to advertise their wealth. And more pressing is, what does Mia want? What can the Faulkner and this Faulkner in particular offer?
For the first time in a long time, I’m enthused by something other than getting off.
I take another swallow of water, enjoying the way her eyes dip to my mouth. Then I lean forward, my forearms resting on the table between us. ‘Did you keep the other dresses?’ She leans back, her colour high. I’d love to see her in the red, the only dress I’d personally chosen because, even within minutes of meeting her, I knew it would complement her dark hair and cling to her sensational body in all the right places.
She sighs. ‘I haven’t had time to return them yet, but I plan to.’
‘Keep them. As you can see, the events calendar is full, and you’ll need something other than jeans. Although you look sensational in and out of clothes...’ I slide my stare over her, enjoying the mini-glare she shoots me and the flush of colour screaming up her neck. Yes, I’m an inappropriate arsehole blurring the lines of professional and personal...
I brush my lip, remembering her taste. ‘I told you we’d be good together.’
Her mouth tightens and her eyes narrow and then she smiles, a begrudging twist of that delicious mouth that’s over before its effect—my lungs expanding in my chest—has time to register.
‘You’re a dick, you know that?’
I laugh and she stares me down, shaking her head. ‘I do. But as we discussed this morning, “Kit” will do.’
Mia rolls her eyes. ‘I think we should keep what’s left of today about work. I’m on a deadline.’
The sun on my back intensifies, my neck prickling as if singed. ‘You’re leaving London after the three weeks?’
She nibbles her lip and nods, her fingers on the move once more. ‘Maybe earlier if the weather’s good.’
I glance at the sky, the haze of cloudless pale blue, and suck in a steady stream of air, telling myself that our temporary acquaintance couldn’t be more perfect.
‘Okay, I agree. Today we work. I’ll introduce you at City Heli Rides and ensure they are at your disposal.’
But later, off the clock...
‘Great. Let’s get started.’ She’s on her feet in a second. Bob, sensing her enthusiasm, wakes from his nap and joins her side, tail keen as if he expects to be included on the fun.
Not this time, buddy.
I stand too, something about Mia’s energy contagious. ‘Make sure you’re free tomorrow evening. There’s a VIP event on at the Faulkner I’d like you to attend. You might find it useful, for the film.’
She nods, setting off for the house. ‘I have my gear here so let’s go.’ Before I realise what I’m doing my feet have moved to follow her, my limbs now twitching with restless excitement. I text my driver and grab my sunglasses from the kitchen.
Inside the front door, she turns, one hand on Bob’s head, scratching. ‘Can Bob come?’ For the first time since we met her voice holds a hint of uncertainty.
Two pairs of hopeful eyes stare up at me, the one-two jab perfectly aimed at my solar plexus. My automatic ‘no’ hovers on my tongue, blocking my throat, almost suffocating me.
This excitable, bubbly side of her infects Bob, whose tail thumps the wall in time with the jiggles of Mia’s leg, as if she can’t hold in the vibrating energy that transmits across the space to affect me too.
Two weeks; three tops. Temporary with a capital T.
I shrug, using the time Mia is distracted by cheering and dropping to her haunches to give Bob a good neck scrub in celebration to draw in a calming deep breath.
All I have to do is let her do her job and persuade her to extend our arrangement beyond last night.
Should be fairly straightforward.
Two weeks.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mia
AS WE LEAVE the house, Kit reaches for my backpack. I resist. Not only is it the reason my arms, shoulders and back are well-toned, it also contains my livelihood, my passion—I guard it with the ferocity of a mama bear protecting a cub.
‘I won’t drop it.’ He’s ridiculously handsome grinning at me, the sunnies hiding his intense eyes.
‘I’ve got it, thanks.’ I’m not some delicate female. My chosen field is dominated by men—I’ve never once needed help carrying my gear.
Kit relents and opens the car door, ushering Bob and me into the back seat. While he rounds the car I breathe and try to compose myself. I’m off balance, my thoughts veering between certainty and intrigue—not just a consequence of Kit’s raw sex appeal, which still beckons me like I’m a moth who likes nothing better than the smell of her own singed wings. But the glimpses of family-man Kit, dog-owner Kit, relaxed-eating-breakfast-in-his-own-home Kit—it’s too much. Not to mention chivalrous, bag-carrying, door-opening Kit...
Bob, between us on the seat, provides the perfect barrier, but it doesn’t diminish the cloying sexual tension filling the car. We were good together. Better than good. One time, two...what difference does it make? I’m not interested in a relationship, and Kit’s not offering one. I fiddle with the strap of my backpack and stare out of the window.
‘So why film-making? Is it a Hobbit thing?’
I laugh, determined to fight our still potent chemistry and my unsettled emotions and make the most of today’s filming. ‘Tolkien adaptations aren’t New Zealand’s only exports.’
At his silent watchfulness and small smile, I cave with a sigh. Conversation is better than the way he silently observes me, and my trip to his house achieved the desired result. ‘It began with photography. My brother, Will, bought me my first SLR for my fifteenth birthday.’
‘That was generous.’
‘Yes. Will is one of my life’s gifts. And he knew me better than I knew myself back then.’ I tap my fingers on the leather seat, only stopping when Bob nudges them with a wet nose and a lick.
‘In what way?’ His eyes narrow and I choose my next words carefully.
‘I guess I went through something of a rebellious stage—skipping school, dying my hair blue, becoming a daredevil tomboy.’ An ache settles under my ribs and I look away, the memories evoking the emotions as if it were yesterday. ‘He...saw I needed something.’
The silence slides over me until all the hairs on my body stand to attention.
‘What did you need?’ Kit’s question is hushed. He glances over at me, cool eyes searching.
I shrug, ignoring the gnawing feeling inside, so much a part of me it’s coded in my DNA. ‘A focus. A way to get lost, to get outside my own head.’
Perhaps he knows what that feels like... Perhaps that’s what inspires his precious control...
He presses his lips together, as if holding back. My stare latches there—I know there’s more to come. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. I had a great upbring
ing. My folks are fantastic, despite me probably contributing to their grey hair.’
‘Are they still together?’
I nod, the set of Kit’s mouth prompting the reciprocal question. ‘Yours?’
‘No.’ He strokes the top of Bob’s head, a faraway look on his face. ‘So what was it? Boy trouble? Hormones?’
I laugh, debating giving Kit a full menstrual history just to see his reaction. ‘Nah.’ I force the next words out, challenging myself to speak them unaffectedly, just like the first time I confided them to my closest school friend. ‘I’m adopted.’
The silence lasts a beat or two. ‘For a while, as a teen, I struggled with my identity.’ I’ve no idea where my colouring comes from, which grandparent is responsible for my wavy-hair gene or who I follow height-wise. And that’s without the whys...
‘I see.’ Kit shoots me another look, but I turn away and stare, unseeing, out of the window, my skin shrinking and compressing the rest of me as if I’m trapped in a vice. I’ve known I was adopted from the age of nine or ten, known that my biological mother moved to the UK shortly after my birth, but unlike my brother I’ve resolutely refused to pursue my past. I have a loving family. My work, my travels keep me busy.
It’s enough.
The remainder of the journey to the heliport in Battersea passes in a heavy silence as if Kit has dissected me as easily as he turns me on. I should turn down his offer to enjoy our mutual and in no way lessened attraction, tell him I’m fine without his assistance, deliver the finished product to Reid and never see him again...
My abdominal muscles tense, my stomach hollow while that image filters through my thoughts. Whatever this is, neither of us is interested in anything more than the pretty great sex that went down last night. I’m overthinking. I look over at an equally pensive Kit. His raw masculinity, his still potent sex appeal, his high emotional barriers all form a perfectly packaged distraction.