by Amanda Aksel
I gaze at his curled upper lip. Five minutes with his sexy mouth and my dress will absolutely hit the floor.
Garret nudges my back. “Kate, introduce yourself,” he says out of the side of his mouth.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m Kate.” I balance my hand in the tantalizing air between us. When his skin touches mine, a surge of electricity circuits up my arm, across my chest, and down below my waist.
“I’m Drew.” He lifts my hand to his lips. His breath excites my skin just before he kisses my hand. And it’s not one of those polite English gentleman kisses. It’s sensual. Erotic. His mouth parts slightly, leaving behind an invisible mark.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I say. “And sorry again for the spill.”
Drew grins. “The pleasure’s all mine. And don’t worry about getting me all wet. Maybe one day I can return the favor.”
Garret covers his mouth, choking on his martini. A little liquor dribbling down his chin. I almost forgot he’s still here.
“This is my friend, Garret,” I say with a tight-lipped smile.
“Hi.” Garret flutters his fingers in a wave, then grabs on to my arm. “Kate, can I speak with you for a moment?”
I keep up my phony grin. “What is it, Garret?”
“It’ll just take a sec!” My friend shows off his freshly whitened teeth. “Would you excuse us for a second?”
Drew nods. “Sure.”
Garret tugs me along with him and I trot close behind in my stilettoes. When we’re out of Drew’s earshot, he turns to me with a wide-eyed glare. “Look, I know you said that this isn’t a vacation, but there’s no way that guy has a weird lingerie fetish. He is bad-boy gorgeous, and if you don’t take him home, I’m going to try.” He holds my hands in his, pleading with me.
“He’s hot but I’m not taking him home with me,” I say in a hushed tone, even though my body wants him in my bed. I have a rule about one-night stands. I don’t do them because I think they’re tacky, not sexy. Besides, how good can sex be with someone you don’t know?
“Kate, honey, I love that you’re such a good girl but these last few months you’ve been stiffer than the hard-on you just gave him. You have got to loosen up. Look,” Garret nods toward Drew. “He’s still staring at you.”
I glance over my shoulder. Drew is patiently waiting in the same spot I had left him. There are at least five glossy cover models surrounding us but Drew stares at me like I’m the sexiest woman in the room, or rather the only woman in the room. And I like it. “He is gorgeous,” I say, giving in a little more.
“Exactly. Go over there, graze Little Katies on his arm, and if he asks you to go somewhere private, at least consider it. You don’t want to die with any regrets,” he says.
I shoot him a caustic look. “I’m starting to regret this conversation.”
Garret laughs. “Ha! No, you’re not. Now get your sexy little tush over there so we have something to gush about later.”
I tilt my chin forward as I turn away. “Fine.” Garret gives me a light swat on my booty, sending me back over to Drew.
The truth is I want to do exactly what Garret’s suggesting but not because I need to loosen up. Because being close to Drew makes me feel like I’m already lying naked in the sheets, every inch of me wants every inch of him. My body’s never reacted to a stranger like this before. It’s like not knowing how thirsty you are until someone offers you a drink.
I may consider myself somewhat confident in business but I’ve never been bold in the bedroom. Maybe it’s his leather jacket or his five o’clock shadow, but something about Drew makes me want to toss the rulebook over the Tower Bridge.
I smile, batting my eyelashes as I approach him. “Sorry about that.”
Drew holds a steady gaze. “No problem.”
Another champagne waiter passes by, this time noticing me. I grab one, swapping it out for my now-empty martini, and suck down half the flute in seconds. If I’m going to consider what Garret said, I’ll need some liquid courage.
“Wow, you must be thirsty.” His eyes bulge.
“Yeah,” I say, catching my breath. “I didn’t realize how parched I was until I saw you—I mean saw this . . . glass of champagne.” I hold up the flute, pretending to be mesmerized by the bubbles floating near the surface when I really want to face palm myself for that stupid slipup.
He lets out a small laugh and sips his drink, keeping those mysterious eyes intently fixed on me—like he’s undressing me in his mind, in every way a person can be stripped. Like he can see right through me. A shiver runs up my spine and I quickly down the rest of the champagne.
“You from the States then?” Drew asks in a low tone.
I nod. “Yeah, I just flew in from L.A.”
“You’re a long way from home.” He smirks.
Being five thousand miles from home is one thing, but being close to him pushes me way out of my usual element. I glance down at his shoes—roughed-up designer combat boots. That’s unexpected. I like it. “Yeah. What about you?”
“I’m what you’d call a Londoner.”
My brows knit together. “I’m sorry, did you say Londonaire?”
His smile reaches his eyes as he laughs. “No, London-ER,” he pronounces with a hard American accent.
I giggle. “Ah, Londoner. Got it. Thought you were American when you said it. You an actor?”
He shakes his head with a twisted expression. “No, not at all.”
“Model?” I ask.
“Nope. Why, are you a model? A Hollywood actress?” he jokes.
I raise my brows, shifting my jaw. “Definitely not.” And I can’t remember the last time someone asked me that. Probably because my business is my husband and we like to stay in and work on evenings and weekends.
Drew leans in, his lips nearly touching the edges of my earlobes. “So, what are you then?” he whispers.
My empty glass trembles in my hand as I inhale his spicy, intoxicating cologne. Can he hear the sound of my racing heart like I can? “I’m a . . . I’m just Kate.”
Just Kate? What the hell does that even mean? I usually can’t wait to gush about my company and designs. But Drew pops into my life and my usual small talk goes out the window.
He pulls back with a slight sparkle reflecting in his leather-brown eyes. “I like that answer. Why define ourselves by our jobs or last names when we can just be Kate and Drew?”
Kate and Drew? I don’t hate it. I also don’t hate how he can strip me down with one look. Though I can imagine him with his boxer briefs around his ankles, I don’t know if I have him pegged.
He gestures toward the stairs with a nod and a confident stance. “You wanna get away from this lot?”
I glance around the room for Garret, chewing my bottom lip. “Sure. What did you have in mind?”
He raises his brows as if surprised. “I know a place upstairs. No one will bother us.”
“Upstairs? Here?” I ask, wondering if this guy is the good kind of trouble or the bad kind. I’m really not looking to be bad in Nina Savoy’s house.
“Oh, yeah. I know a place. It’s totally fine.”
Who is this guy? “Um, okay. I guess we can check it out.”
Drew shoots me a wry look. “Really?”
“Yeah . . .” I say. It’s as if he doesn’t believe I’ll actually go upstairs with him.
“Okay.” He smirks and gulps down what’s left of his cocktail. “That’s a nice surprise.”
“What does that mean?” I tilt my head. It’s not as weird as a lingerie fetish but it’s an odd thing to say.
“Because girls like you don’t really go for guys like me,” he says, and I can’t imagine any woman in her right mind not wanting to go upstairs with him.
“Girls like me? You don’t know anything about me.”
“Maybe not, but I bet you’ve never fooled around with a guy you met an hour earlier.”
I swallow hard. What is he? Psychic? “Why does that matt
er?”
“It doesn’t. Not to me.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter to me either.” And as soon as the words leave my mouth, it does matter. But I can’t figure out if that’s because of him or because of me.
“Okay, then.” He extends his hand. “Come with me, Kate.” He says my name as if he’s swirling the syllables in his mouth like a good sip of wine. Then he takes my hand, tucking it safely in his like a delicate piece of lace. My hesitation seems to melt with every step we take up the steep staircase. And now I’m sure that my dress is coming off. Tonight. At Nina Savoy’s house. With a guy I just met.
The long, well-lit hallway is vacant and all the doors closed. We turn the corner with only one final, closed door at the end. “This is it,” he says, wrapping his fingers around the silver doorknob. “Are you ready?”
The answer must be no because the next thing out of my mouth is, “Is there a bathroom I can use first?” Because bathrooms are super sexy . . .
He cocks his head looking like he wants to laugh at me, then points down the hall. “Around the corner. The second door on the left.”
“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
“If you say so,” he says, pushing open the door. A dim light radiates from the room and he disappears inside, shutting the door behind him.
If I say so? Is that some kind of reverse psychology? Well, it worked because now I’m definitely coming back.
I hurry around the corner, adjusting my dress but thinking it’s a futile pursuit. Nina Savoy’s hall bathroom is easily bigger than my master bathroom with its sunken tub surrounded by black-and-white-swirled marble and matching sink, beautiful recessed lighting, and a huge diamond-patterned beveled window. I check out my dress in the full-wall mirror behind the tub, then my clutch vibrates on the marble vanity top. A familiar tune sounds from inside. I pull out my phone. It’s Beau, my best friend since first grade. I ignore her call, but then my phone alerts me to her four missed calls from the last twenty minutes.
“Shit,” I mutter, swiping the screen.
“Thank God, Kate.” Beau’s voice is thick and cracks around my name.
My heart plunks into my stomach. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Martino,” Beau sobs. “He posted a photo with some girl on Instagram. And it was not his sister. I texted him—Nice photo. Are we seeing other people now?—and he texted back saying he’s been so lonely since I left Italy, that someone had to keep him warm. What the hell kind of response is that? I thought we were in love. I was gonna fly back in like ten days.”
Beau has a fetish for unavailable foreign men. She claims that each one of them is the love of her life. I’ve heard “He’s The One” at least sixteen times in the past seven years. But despite the string of heartbreaks it’s caused her, she never seems to grow tired of putting herself out there over and over and over again. I want to tell her to grow up, get it together. But she’s my oldest and dearest friend. Not to mention the most loyal. She’s always on my side and so I choose to always be on hers.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. You know how those European guys are. They’re players.” And I’m literally about to fool around with my own European player. “Remember Franco, and Milos, and Isak?” How do I remember their names? “You should protect your heart. Save it for someone who’s really worthy.” While I give this sage advice, I can’t help but think that no one is really worth a broken heart.
“But I thought he was worthy. I thought he was the love of my life.” She lets out a long, dreamy sigh. “The way he made love to me that night in Manarola, I knew he was my sex soul mate.” A handful of men she’s been with have won the title of sex soul mate. I don’t believe in soul mates but I do believe in chemistry. And I need to go back to that room with Drew and find out how explosive our chemistry really is.
I sigh, slouching my shoulders and leaning my hip against the bathroom sink. “I know you did. I’m so sorry, Beau. If I could make this better by bringing you animal-style fries from In-N-Out I would, but I can’t. And I really have to go. I’m at this party—”
“Kate, I really need you right now. I feel so lost.”
I take a deep breath and glance at my sad expression in the mirror. “Okay, I’m here.” I slip out of the bathroom with the phone glued to my ear, consoling Beau as I trek down the stairs, making my way outside. Chemistry with some guy isn’t nearly as important as Beau’s broken heart. And if it is, I guess I’ll never know now, which is probably for the best.
Two
DREW
I knew she’d never come back. “Just Kate” is not the shack-up-with-strangers type. And even though I knew that, I still got blue balls waiting for her. That girl was gorgeous, with the sexiest pair of legs I’ve ever seen. And those lips . . . I could suck on those for a while. But I know a good girl when I see one. Too bad she wasn’t feeling rebellious last night.
It would’ve been a perfect situation. Girl takes a trip to London, has a fling with some Brit she can brag about to all of her American girlfriends, then goes home, never expecting anything more than what she got. That’s all I really offer anyway. I’m not the kind of lad women get serious with. I’m more of the lone, wild horse variety, or at least that’s how I feel now, riding my motorbike this morning to a photo shoot I was assigned to for Lux Magazine.
Some boudoir-style, lingerie thing for Lux Magazine. A sexy model in a see-through bra is exactly what I need to brush off Kate and her olive-colored eyes. I park near the three-story studio building in Soho, double-checking the address on my phone. This place just opened up a few weeks ago. Lifting my helmet off my head, I smooth back my hair and hop off of my vintage-style Triumph motorbike, Black Jack, one of my first bikes and the only one I never get bored with. I don’t think I’ll ever give up Black Jack.
Inside, I ride the lift to the third floor and follow the chatter to the studio at the end of the hall. Two ladies surround an empty makeup chair. One guy adjusts the white canopy curtains around the four-poster bed, while another levels out the white sheets. The rest of the crew’s scattered about the room. Rays of sunlight stream in through the window hitting the bed perfectly. We only have about an hour to get the shot before the light changes.
“There you are.” Francesca’s steps echo over the bare walls of the studio as she approaches me. Her black bun seems perfectly balanced atop her head as she adjusts her dark-framed, naughty-librarian glasses. She’s Lux Magazine’s production director and we’ve worked together many times. Just work, no play. Francesca’s married to some finance fellow from Sussex. And I’d never mess around with a married woman. Even ones with cat-shaped eyes like hers.
“You’re looking beautiful today, as always,” I say, pecking a kiss on each of her cheeks.
“Thanks, babe.” Francesca glances behind me. “Where’s your assistant?”
“He quit.” I set my helmet and bag down near my feet.
She holds her hand to her mouth with a slight chuckle. “Isn’t that like the fourth assistant this year?”
“Um, something like that. I can’t keep track. These wankers don’t know anything about paying their dues.”
“And you do?” She folds her arms, giving me a square look.
I narrow my eyes. “Yeah, I do.”
It’s not the first time someone’s assumed that about me. In fact, it’s not at all uncommon. Even though I go by Drew Blake, everyone in this city knows I’m a Bonnaire—from one of the most prominent families in England. Hell, the Queen knighted my father. Yeah, I grew up privileged, with more than enough money in my trust fund to never need to take another job. And even more waiting for me upon my marriage, which I’m certain will never happen since the idea of sleeping with one woman for the rest of my life feels just short of castration.
Okay . . . so maybe being a Bonnaire has its perks. It definitely helped me land an apprenticeship with Ferguson Burke, one of the world’s most famous modern photographers. Burke didn’t give a shit that I was Sir Dean Bonnaire’s son.
With the way he treated me, I might as well’ve been some poor kid from Hackney. But he’s a true artist. Apprenticing with him was like learning from Leonardo Da Vinci. And he taught me everything because I kept my head down, did what he wanted, and didn’t ask questions. Now I’m the most in-demand fashion photographer in London, earning the respect of my peers and industry professionals. But I have yet to earn my dad’s respect.
“Fine, you can get set up,” Francesca says. “Our model should be out of the dressing room anytime now.”
“Good, I have time to use the toilet. Where is it?”
Francesca nods down the hall. “On the right.”
I leave the studio and find myself faced with two doors on the right, and I crack open the first one. It definitely isn’t the bathroom. A set of garment racks stands in the middle with sets of lacy lingerie dangling from satin hangers. I push the door all the way open.
“Garret, I told you I’d be out in a minute!” a woman yells. She scrambles to cover herself with a silk robe, but the curve of her bare hip peeks out of the side. Her ankle wobbles in her black stilettos and clutches the robe in her hands as she loses the fight with gravity. “Whoa!” she yowls and falls to the floor.
I lunge for her. “Are you all right?”
Her sexy mouth hangs open. She glances up at me, her wide green eyes meeting mine for the first time. I freeze, too stunned for manners, like helping a fallen damsel to her feet.
It’s Kate.
She gasps. “You!”
“You?” I cock my head.
“What are you doing here?” Kate struggles to her feet, wrapping the black robe tighter around her body. I almost didn’t recognize her dark wavy hair, spiraling over her shoulders and bold eye makeup. Mascara is so sexy. Or is it eye shadow? I don’t know what it’s called, but I like it.
“I’m the photographer.”
Kate flares her delicate nostrils, clenching the fabric in her fist against her chest. “You’re Drew Blake?”