He lifts his chin in that way that men do. ‘That’s right.’
‘And how do you know I wouldn’t?’ I ask with a baffled note of exasperation, my attention so focused on the gorgeous male staring me down that I’m only vaguely aware of Martin sliding to his feet and escaping the office. Not that I blame him. Things are getting pretty weird in here.
Another grin suddenly curls Beckett’s mouth, and I can see the shift of powerful muscle beneath his white shirt as he shoves his hands back into his pockets. ‘Something tells me that smart-arse mouth of yours would only be cutting me. Not anyone else.’
Huh? Is this guy for real? ‘And that sounds like fun to you?’
His low laugh melts down my spine, settling with liquid warmth between my thighs. ‘Don’t ask me to explain it.’
I cross my arms over my chest, giving him a steely stare. ‘And how exactly do you plan on getting me in to see Harrison’s private collection?’ I ask, not even bothering to mention the interview, since I know that will never happen. ‘Because you had better not be bullshitting me. I’m not lying when I say that I have zero interest in being your go-to-girl for a weekend surrounded by a bunch of posh snobs.’
‘I’m not bullshitting you.’ I can tell from his tone that he doesn’t like what I’ve said. He’s obviously the kind of man who’s used to women jumping to do what he wants as quickly as possible. Too used to it. And I’m so not the subservient type.
‘Then how?’ I press, more than a little surprised by how bitchy I sound. To hear me at this moment, you would never guess that I’m considered a really nice person who easily makes friends. I might not be great at relationships, but it usually takes a lot to rile me. There’s something about Beckett, though, that just sets me on edge.
I can sense he’s about to blast me with something stunning as he steps closer, tipping his head down so that he can hold my stare, his blue eyes gleaming and hot. ‘I’m going to give you a clue,’ he murmurs, the husky notes of his voice sliding through me like a physical touch, making my body feel heavy and damp. ‘My full name is Jasper John Beckett, and my mother’s maiden name was Prescott.’
‘Ohmygod,’ I whisper, my thoughts spinning as I finally put it all together. I have to reach out and grab the back of Martin’s chair again. J.J. Harrison’s full name is Jasper John Harrison Prescott!
‘I was named after the artist, because that’s the way it’s done in my family,’ he adds, and his wide smile is the cockiest damn thing I’ve ever seen. ‘The misogynistic old bastard you’re so interested in is my maternal grandfather.’
Chapter Two
Friday morning
JASE
For the first time in my thirty-two years of life, I’ve met a woman I can’t figure out. It sounds shitty and arrogant, but it’s true. At least from my perspective. I mean, sure, I’ve probably been wrong about a lot of the women I’ve known, but my experiences with them have always played out with no surprises. This one though . . . Yeah, this one has me spinning so hard I barely know my own name.
For the past half-hour, I’ve been driving the new love of my life – a custom-designed matte black Range Rover – down the motorway, while Emmy Reed sits in the passenger seat, doing her best to ignore me. She’s wearing a lightweight yellow cardigan and a long, strapless sundress in a darker shade of yellow, along with a pair of leather sandals that lace up her calves. The whole outfit should make her look like she’s heading for some bohemian music festival, but it suits her in a way that’s impossible for a woman to buy, no matter how much money she spends. Emmy could wear the willowy hippy dress to a bloody black tie event, and still turn heads. And she smells like something that belongs in my mouth. Like something I want to bury my face in and never come up for air.
Without even trying, she’s making me have to fight not to go as hard as a goddamn rock while I’m driving, and my head feels like . . . Jesus, I can’t even describe what I’m feeling. Too much, for one. A smart man might have cut his losses while he still could and got the hell away from her, but maybe I’m not as smart as I’ve always thought I was. After all, the only reason she’s sitting beside me is because of my shit of a grandfather.
But I don’t give a damn.
It would probably sound weird to most people, given the attitude she was throwing my way in my office yesterday, but she’s honestly too refreshing to let her just slip away. I need to at least spend the weekend with her, and enjoy the experience of her, before I walk. And I will. I always do. According to the gossip rags in London, my longest relationship was three weeks, and that’s only because Melissa ended up in hospital with severe appendicitis after our first week together, and it wasn’t like I could end things while she was ill.
Most of my exes might consider me a dick, but even I’m not a big enough prick to dump a woman while her arse is poking out of a hospital gown and she’s having fluids pumped into her through an IV.
‘So who is she?’ the little American asks, and for a second I’m thrown, wondering how she knew I was thinking about an ex.
‘Who is who?’ I hedge, not about to confess to anything I don’t have to.
‘The pretty redhead,’ she says without looking at me. I’m stealing glances at her from the corner of my eye whenever I can, and she’s been staring out the side window for so long now she’s probably got a crick in her neck. ‘You know, the one who delivered all the new clothes to my hotel room last night.’
Ah. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I’m relieved as hell that she hadn’t been reading my mind.
‘I have no idea who she is. I just called Harrods and asked for a personal shopper to pick out some dresses and shoes for you, along with something that would work for a wedding.’
Her head turns my way, and I can feel her dark gaze moving over my profile. ‘You called them?’
‘Yes. Why the tone?’
‘It just seems a bit . . . menial for someone like you. I would have thought you had Martin do it.’
‘No. I’d prefer for Martin not to think about you in thongs and see-through bras.’
It makes me smile when she snorts. ‘Yeah, the lingerie was a nice, if not perverted, touch.’
‘You already think I’m a lech. Might as well live up to the part.’
I can actually feel her rolling her eyes at me, and it keeps the grin on my face. I can’t recall a woman ever giving me this much attitude before, and I know I’m going to miss it when she’s gone. Not that I’ll do anything about it. She might be different from the others, and so damn hot it’s driving me mad, but I’m not looking for anything more than a distraction. Something to ease the monotony of routine, and Emmy is definitely that. I want to touch her soft, golden skin more than I’ve wanted to touch anything in a hell of a long time. Want to break through that armor she wears and make the woman beneath claw at me like an animal. Want to hear her scream with pleasure and feel those short nails digging into my back as I fuck her hard enough to break the bloody bed.
But that armor of hers is fierce. So fierce, she actually ditched me for dinner last night, claiming her head was still hurting too badly to leave her room.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I think about the bastards who mugged her, and I wish I could go back in time and pound the little shits all over again. Or better yet, ignore the call from my chief financial officer that had held me back those crucial seconds, and stop them from ever getting their hands on her in the first place.
Just after I’d dropped the grandfather bomb on her in my office, Dr Riley had arrived. I could tell Emmy didn’t want the doc looking her over, but she didn’t argue with me about it. Luckily, thanks to that thick, beautiful hair of hers, the knocks to her head hadn’t broken the skin, but she had two lumps that Riley had poked and prodded until I’d thought she might kick him. His prognosis had been a slight concussion and regular doses of over-the-counter painkillers for a few days. I’d planned to drive her to the hotel myself when he was done, but an emergency came up wi
th one of my overseas projects that I had to deal with, so Martin had driven her to my family’s hotel, checked her into a suite, and had the medicine delivered. Then he’d gone to collect her suitcase for her, and since I doubted she’d brought the kind of clothes she’d need for a weekend spent in the countryside at a posh wedding on a research trip, I’d called Harrods and had them send over some things.
When I’d shown up at her door just after seven, planning to take her up to the rooftop restaurant for dinner, she hadn’t even let me into the suite. Wearing one of the hotel’s fluffy white robes, she’d cracked the door open and told me she wasn’t up for going out, or having company, which I took to mean get lost. Not wanting to come across as a total dick, I’d given her the new cards that’d been delivered to my office, then told her to rest and that I’d be back to pick her up at eight a.m. Which brings us to where we are now, speeding down the M20, every mile bringing us closer to my childhood home . . . and the last fucking place in the world that I want to be.
After our brief exchange about the redhead, we slip back into another heavy silence, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from hounding her with questions, worried I’ll scare her off. There’s time for patience, because I’ve got all weekend with her. Until Monday evening, actually, since Caroline, my stepmother, has insured my cousin Oliver’s wedding is the most ostentatious event of the year. I’m surprised she hasn’t invited any of the royals, though I think there might be an earl or two there, along with several members of Parliament. Caroline judges every social affair by the size of the guests’ bank accounts and the prestige of their positions in society, and this wedding won’t be any different.
Needing something to do, I turn the radio on, hoping Emmy isn’t a pop fanatic. The corner of my mouth twitches when she starts to quietly sing along to the Arctic Monkeys song that’s playing, and I wonder if she’d be surprised to know that I’ve seen them in concert a few times. Given the things she says, she probably thinks I only attend the symphony and ballet – and I have to admit that I’m looking forward to proving her wrong. To showing her that I’m a hell of a lot more laid-back than she’s given me credit for.
Yes, I might have money. But I’ve worked my arse off for every penny of it, never expecting the world to give me anything. Alistair, my father, was proof enough of how shit things could go when you lived your life on what was handed to you, rather than what you’d earned, and I knew early on that the last thing I wanted to be was like him.
For a moment, I wonder if I should warn Emmy just how screwed up my family is, then decide to keep quiet. She’ll learn for herself soon enough, and I’d rather spend this time just enjoying having her all to myself.
‘You know, my boyfriend back in San Diego really isn’t going to like this,’ she suddenly throws out, still staring out the window.
This time, I’m the one who snorts. ‘Nice try,’ I say, turning the radio down, ‘but you don’t have one.’
Even though my eyes are on the road, I can feel her turn her head to stare at me. ‘How do you—’
‘Lola,’ I cut in with a grin. ‘I asked her when I had her on the phone yesterday.’
She doesn’t respond, and I have a feeling I’ve just landed her friend in a ton of shit. Thinking I owe it to Lola to get the focus off her indiscretion, I say, ‘I thought it was cute how Martin tried to get it out of you, though.’
She gives a quiet laugh, and I have to fight back another smile when she shifts a bit in her seat to face me, her right leg curled up under her. ‘Speaking of Martin, how did you land him?’
‘Land him?’
‘Yeah. He’s like an Alfred, but you’re definitely no Batman. So what’s the story?’
‘Why can’t I be Batman?’ I sound like an idiot, but I honestly want to know why this beautiful blonde thinks I’m so far off the mark.
‘If you were Batman,’ she says all matter-of-factly, ‘you’d have caught me yesterday before I cracked my head against the floor.’
I slant her a quick look to see if she’s serious, and I’m relieved that she’s smirking at me.
‘Fair point,’ I murmur, wanting to kiss that sexy, crooked smile off her lips so badly I can taste it. Can literally fucking taste the need that’s twisting inside me, and I shake my head a little as I force my attention back on the road.
‘So what’s it like having J.J. Harrison for a grandfather?’ she asks, obviously in the mood to talk now, which is fine by me. I just wish she didn’t want to talk about Harrison. But I’ll take what I can get.
‘To be honest,’ I tell her, ‘I wouldn’t really know.’
‘What do you mean? He is your grandfather. I spent an hour last night looking you up online, and eventually found some family photos that had been posted of you with him. They looked like they might have been from some awards ceremony he’d been forced to go to.’
‘Yes, he’s my biological grandfather, but he’s never acted like it,’ I explain, unable to remember when a photo of me and Harrison would have been taken. I’ve done my best to stay out of his way for years now. ‘He’s more like this cantankerous old bastard I run into from time to time.’
‘Oh. That sucks. I almost feel like I should say I’m sorry.’
‘Almost?’ I ask with a husky laugh.
‘Well, I mean, it’s not like you’re hurting for family. From what I read, you’ve got enough relatives to populate a small town.’
Christ, if she only knew how badly I wish it were otherwise. But I’m not getting into it now. I’ve only got a few days with this girl, and I’m sure as hell not going to waste them complaining about the dysfunctional Becketts.
We spend the next fifty miles talking about anything and everything. I ask her about the degree she’s just finished, and why she chose this new career of hers. I’m fascinated by her answer – I love writing and I love art. The mystery and beauty of them. The emotion, the secrets, the spaces in between what we see and what we think. So it seemed natural to put them together.
Yeah, this girl doesn’t think like anyone else I know, and I wonder if that’s because she’s so perfectly unique, or if I just keep really shallow company.
When she asks me to explain what I do for a living, I can tell she’s surprised that I don’t just sit behind my big desk and look at stock values twenty-four seven. That I actually spend a lot of my time overseeing the building of megastructures around the world that not only push the cutting edge in design technology, but are environmentally progressive, as well as a boost to the local economies. I think she’s even beginning to warm to me a little, though she’s still wary. But I can sense there’s a tiny part of her that’s starting to see me as more than just some prick in a high-priced suit. It’s clear that at some point in her life, someone with money has treated her like shit, and it makes me want to pound the bastard’s face in. Strange, when I usually prefer to keep my temper under tight control these days, since it tended to get the better of me when I was younger.
But I want Emmy to give me names and addresses, and I want to track down every tosser who’s ever hurt her and make them pay. And these aren’t just meaningless thoughts. I actually want to do it.
Bloody hell, I think, rubbing my hand along my rigid jaw. This girl is twisting me up and down and every way in between, and I haven’t even touched her yet, other than that brief, innocent handshake in my office. And God knows that wasn’t nearly enough.
As we pull off the motorway and start winding through the British countryside, her attention is pulled to what’s outside the window again. This time, though, she seems content to keep the conversation going while she enjoys the view. ‘It’s so beautiful here,’ she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice as she takes in the rolling green hills, ancient trees, and quaint thatch-roofed cottages.
‘You enjoy visiting the UK?’ I ask her, slowing my speed as we pass through another village.
‘Of course I do,’ she says, turning her head to look my way. ‘Why is that surprising?’
>
It’s a little unnerving, how good she is at reading my emotions. ‘From our conversation yesterday, I guess I just figured you had us all pegged as pretentious, power-hungry snobs.’
‘God no,’ she says with conviction. ‘Some of the most amazing people I know are British.’
‘Ah. So then it’s just me and my crowd who you think are the snobs?’
I glance over just in time to catch her pink, soft-looking lips curve into another smirk. ‘Naw,’ she drawls, exaggerating her southern accent. ‘I know quite a few of you in America too.’
I laugh as I shake my head. This girl. I have a feeling she’s starting to get a kick out of giving me a hard time. And yet, I also sense that there’s definitely a story there. One I’m determined to hear before the end of our weekend. For now, though, I simply ask, ‘What were you planning on doing in Surrey? As far as I know, none of Harrison’s paintings are there.’
‘I’ll tell you if you tell me who you were talking to on the phone when I woke up on your office sofa yesterday.’
Confused, I say, ‘Why on earth would you care about that?’
She lifts her feminine shoulders in a little shrug. ‘You sounded . . . angry. I just wondered why.’
A gritty laugh jerks from my chest. ‘Because my cousin Cameron is a dickhead. That’s who I was talking to.’
‘Does the “dickhead” piss you off often?’
I shoot her a tight smile. ‘Every time he opens his pompous mouth.’ Looking back at the road, I add, ‘When you meet him today, you’ll understand why.’
‘Can’t wait,’ she murmurs drily, before answering my question. ‘I was heading down to Surrey because I discovered that one of your grandfather’s former employees lives there. A woman named Margaret Dunnet.’
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. ‘Margie? I didn’t know she’d retired there.’
‘You know her?’
She does the whole leg thing again as she faces me, and I swear the little glimpse I get of smooth, golden thigh before she sorts out her dress makes my cock give a dangerous twitch. I honestly haven’t had this much trouble controlling myself since I was a hormone-ridden teenager, and I have to cough to clear the lump of lust in my throat before I can say, ‘She used to bake me cookies when I was a kid.’ A smile kicks up a corner of my mouth at the memory. ‘Margie basically ran the old man’s household until she retired when I was twelve and Anna, whom you’ll also meet this weekend, took over.’ Realizing that I still have no idea what she wants to talk to Harrison about, I ask, ‘What’s the angle of your piece, anyway?’
The Weekend Page 3