Manhattan's Most Scandalous Reunion--An Uplifting International Romance

by Dani Collins

  ‘Do you think this is funny?’ she snapped.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ His gaze bored into her. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course not—’

  ‘In that case...’ He paused, his eyes narrowing on her face with such a mixture of exasperation and hostility that she had to look away. ‘Do you think it would be too much trouble to tell me exactly what you’re doing in my bed?’

  Frankie’s head jerked up. She stared at him, her pulse doing some kind of complicated step-ball-change.

  His bed.

  Her eyes dropped to the bag by his feet—more specifically to the initials embossed on the leather.

  A. M.

  A.M.

  In other words, Arlo Milburn...

  She groaned inwardly as a grainy silence filled the room. ‘Wh-what are you doing here?’ she finally stammered. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’

  Shifting his weight away from the doorframe, he walked slowly across the room, stopping at the end of the bed.

  ‘I think you’ll find that’s my line,’ he said coldly.

  * * *

  Watching the woman’s pale face stiffen with shock and panic, Arlo Milburn felt his jaw tighten. The last few days had been some of the most stressful and frustrating in his life.

  He’d been on his way from the research station on the Brunt Ice Shelf to speak at a climate conference in Nairobi. It was an important conference. They all were. But when they’d landed at Durban one of the engineers had spotted an electrical fault on the plane, so instead he’d spent eight hours pacing the hangar, missing his connecting flight and his chance to speak.

  And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, Emma—his extremely efficient assistant—had called to tell him that she had broken her arm and was going to be off work for at least six weeks.

  Thwarted at every turn, he’d randomly decided to come home.

  Big mistake.

  Thanks to the frenetic arrival of Storm Delia on British shores, his journey had been plagued with even more delays. He was cold, wet, and tired, and he wanted to go to bed.

  Only his bed was already taken.

  By some unknown female who looked as if she had stepped out of that painting by Titian in the entrance hall. Except she was wielding a cricket bat.

  Arlo scowled. ‘Well? Why are you here? In my house? In my bed? And make it quick—otherwise I will call the police, and unlike you I won’t be bluffing.’

  He felt a rush of gratification as a faint flush of colour spread over her cheeks.

  ‘Stop interrogating me like some sergeant-major,’ she snapped. ‘You’re not in the army now.’

  His gaze narrowed. ‘I never was. I was a marine. That’s the navy. And I was a captain, not a sergeant-major.’

  She gave him a withering look. ‘Fine...whatever. I thought Johnny had spoken to you.’ She bit her lip, doing a good impression of confusion and dismay. ‘He said he’d called you.’

  Johnny. But of course—

  Arlo’s jaw clenched and he swore under his breath, wondering what else his brother had told this woman. He’d been taking care of Johnny ever since their grief-stricken father had retreated to his artist’s studio after their mother died, and he loved him unconditionally. But his brother was not without his flaws.

  Poor timekeeping. A failure to do what he said he would do. And, last but not least, his refusal to judge a book by its cover—something this scheming little redhead had clearly spotted and mined to her advantage.

  ‘Where is he?’ he demanded.

  She blinked; her mouth was trembling. ‘I don’t know exactly.’

  Her eyes locked on his, and for a split second he forgot his anger, forgot that he was cold and tired. Instead, he stared at her mutely, held captive by the blue of those eyes.

  It was the same blue as an Antarctic summer sky. The kind of blue that almost verged on purple, like the flowers on the fragrant, woody rosemary that grew so abundantly in the Hall’s kitchen garden.

  Maybe that was why he was having to dig his heels into the faded Afghan carpet to stop himself from leaning over and inhaling her scent.

  His breath hitched. Johnny was never without a woman in his life. As soon as he’d become a teenager a constant stream of interchangeable leggy girls had started trailing after him, and that hadn’t changed as an adult. But for some reason the idea of his little brother and this particular woman put his back up.

  Probably because she was an impudent little madam who had no doubt been bowling men over with that look her entire life.

  Not him, though.

  His back straightened. ‘Look, I’ve spent the last two days in trains, planes, and taxis. I’m cold and tired and I nearly broke my neck tripping over your damn case, so I’m really not in the mood for a game of hide and seek.’

  Her chin jerked up and he knew he was doing a poor job of hiding his frustration—which, of course, only made him more frustrated.

  ‘I’m not playing games. Johnny’s not here, he’s—’ she began, her red curls bouncing in indignation, but he cut her off.

  ‘What do you mean, he’s not here? If you’re here, he has to be here.’ Glancing down, he noticed a lumpy shape beneath the bedding and his temper flared. ‘What the—?’

  The woman scrambled up the bed as he jerked the quilt free of her hands. ‘Are you crazy? What are you doing?’

  Arlo gazed down at the pillow, and then back at the woman, and a bolt of heat exploded in his groin. The shock of finding her in his bed had blinded him to all but the most obvious features of her appearance, so that he’d registered nothing much more than those eyes, a lot of freckles, and that hair. Now, though, he was registering a lot more.

  His eyes skimmed over her near-naked body.

  A whole lot more.

  She was wearing some kind of dark blue silky slip. Yes, slip was the right word for it, he thought, his heart pounding like a cannon against his ribcage. He felt as though the floor had turned to ice and he was sliding sideways.

  Her skin was pale, and he knew it would be stupidly smooth to the touch, but it was what was hinted at beneath the slip that was that was making his body ache. The press of her nipples, the provocative curve of her bottom...

  He closed his eyes briefly to compose himself, and then tossed the bedding back towards her. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘I just told you that,’ she said hotly. ‘We were supposed to come up here together, only then he got called back for a part and he had to fly out to LA. Anyway, he gave me a key and told me I could have the run of the place.’

  ‘Did he?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘How very generous of him.’ He saw her teeth clench.

  ‘He didn’t know you were going to be here. He was just trying to do a nice thing for me.’

  She left the sentence there, but it was clear from the curl of her lip that she considered such ‘niceness’ beyond Arlo.

  ‘And you are...?’ he said impatiently.

  ‘Frankie Fox.’

  What kind of a name was that?

  A rush of exasperation collided with a sharp, intense desire to press his mouth against hers and wipe that impudent curl from her lips.

  ‘Hence the hair, I suppose?’ He stared at her witheringly. ‘Do you change your name when you dye it a different colour?’

  ‘This is my hair colour.’ Her eyes flashed with undisguised irritation. ‘And my name is the one my parents gave me.’

  Tilting his head to one side, he sighed. ‘I’m guessing you’re an actor too. They usually are... Johnny’s fangirls.’

  He’d wanted to cut her down to size only watching the way she wrapped her arms around herself, as if she was cold, he suddenly felt something pinch inside him.

  But it wasn’t as if Johnny could be serious about her. Sure, she was pretty, but his brother was swimming in beautiful women.
>
  Her chin jutted forward. ‘I’m not an actor,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m a social media influencer.’

  He frowned. ‘A what?’

  He knew what social media was, but an influencer...?

  ‘A. Social. Media. Influencer.’

  She was speaking each word slowly, as if English wasn’t his first language or he was hard of hearing.

  ‘Basically, brands send me clothes and accessories and I get paid to tell my followers about them.’

  By ‘followers’ he supposed she meant a bunch of young men with their tongues hanging out.

  ‘Sounds fascinating.’

  As payback for the eye-roll that had accompanied her reply, he deliberately made no effort to hide the derision in his voice. His eyes bored into the quilt she was clutching to her chest, then shifted to the thin satin straps hugging her shoulders.

  ‘So who exactly are you expecting to “influence” dressed like that?’

  The question ricocheted ominously inside his head as he replayed what she’d told him. Johnny inviting her to the family home on its private island...his last-minute call-back in the States...her decision to come without him. And, last but not least, he took in that teasing scrap of material she was wearing.

  All of it could be explained away as either coincidence or misunderstanding. But the way she was biting into her lip and gazing up at him through that forest of eyelashes—that was calculated. It was the swift-thinking, self-serving, opportunistic response of a beautiful, unprincipled woman who knew her charms and was willing to turn them on for the right reward.

  ‘No one. I’m obviously not working.’

  Not on the clock, anyway.

  He felt anger stir inside him. She might not have an Equity card, but she was one hell of an actress. Only she’d picked the wrong man to hustle.

  ‘Not working. And not staying,’ he said coolly.

  Spinning round, he picked up her ridiculous pillarbox-red suitcase and tossed it onto the bed.

  ‘Pack your stuff. You can spend the rest of the night here, but I want you out of my house in the morning. And out of my bed right now.’

  She was staring at him open-mouthed, as if she couldn’t believe what he was saying. He couldn’t quite believe it either. He certainly hadn’t been raised to turf guests out of their beds.

  But Frankie Fox was not a guest.

  He knew her type and she was all kinds of trouble wrapped up in a silk slip. Maybe another man—a more trusting, less experienced man, like Johnny—might be tempted to unwrap her. He knew better. It was the one, the only benefit of his short-lived, disastrous marriage to Harriet. Being able to look before leaping.

  ‘You can’t do this...’ Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was trembling slightly. ‘You can’t just throw me out.’

  ‘It’s my home,’ he said flatly. ‘I can do what I like. And what I would like is to go to sleep. It’s been a very long day, and tomorrow I’ve got a series of lectures to write up. Because, unlike you, I don’t get paid to lounge around in my underwear. Nor am I running a B&B for my brother’s cast-offs.’

  Watching her hands clench, he knew she wanted to hurl her suitcase at his head.

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ she hissed.

  ‘Oh, I dare, Ms Fox.’ He held her gaze. ‘You see, I know exactly how this plays out. You came up here to play house with my sweet little brother, maybe “influence” him into something more serious. Only he bailed, so you’re switching to Plan B. Me.’

  ‘What?’

  A slow wash of crimson flooded her cheeks as the case slid from her fingers. But he refused to let his gaze drop to the tempting thrust of her breasts.

  ‘Unfortunately, you’re wasting your time. I’m on a break from women right now, and even if I wasn’t, I would never be interested in some little chancer like you.’

  She was looking at him as if he was something the tide had washed up on the beach.

  ‘Let me get this right. You think I want to seduce you.’ Hot colour flushed her cheeks like warpaint. ‘As if!’ She spat the words at him.

  ‘Then you won’t mind leaving my bed,’ he snapped, more annoyed than he liked to admit by her emphatic response.

  ‘Mind?’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘I’d rather sleep in the dog’s basket than with you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ he said curtly, pulling his fleece over his head. ‘He snores. And you can cut the theatrics. There’s a whole other wing of bedrooms. But then I’m guessing you know that, from wandering around playing lady of the manor.’

  The flush of colour darkened in her cheeks and with a rush of satisfaction he began unbuttoning his shirt.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He could hear the sudden sharp snag of panic in her voice, but he didn’t look over at her. ‘I’m getting undressed.’

  Unthinkingly, he shifted his gaze to the mirror over the fireplace and watched her snatch jeans and a jacket from the window seat. Her face and collarbone were still flushed pink and that glorious hair rippled over her bare shoulders like molten copper. She was exquisite.

  His throat clenched. She was also about as far from his ideal woman as it was possible to get—and that was putting it mildly.

  He swung round to face her, his eyes snagging on her bare legs before he had a chance to stop himself. ‘Leave the keys.’

  Breathing raggedly, she fumbled in the jacket pocket. As she pulled them out, they caught in the lining.

  He swore softly. ‘Here, let me—’

  His fingers brushed against hers as he reached to help and he felt a sharp snap of static.

  ‘Don’t touch me.’ Breathing out shakily, she jerked away from him.

  He felt a stab of anger. He hadn’t meant to touch her. Only now, as his eyes jumped from the fierce expression on her face to her soft parted lips, he realised he wanted more than one brief moment of contact. What he wanted was to push her back onto the bed and slide his hands over every inch of that satin-smooth skin...

  ‘Nothing could be further from my mind,’ he lied. ‘Now, give me back the keys,’ he said tersely.

  Drawing a jagged breath, she tossed them at him and stalked across the room. As she reached the door she turned, tilting her chin to look at him with over-bright eyes, and he felt something twist inside his chest.

  ‘You know, Johnny talks about you a lot. He thinks you’re going to save the world...that you’re a hero.’ Raising her chin, she held his gaze. ‘Some hero,’ she said, smiling coldly.

  And then, without giving him a chance to reply, she grabbed the handle of her suitcase and spun away into the darkness.

  Copyright © 2021 by Louise Fuller

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  ISBN-13: 9780369707062

  Manhattan’s Most Scandalous Reunion

  Copyright © 2021 by Dani Collins

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiou
sly. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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