Crave Me

by Geneva Lee

  But there was one thing I needed to be clear about. “I don’t want charity.”

  “I’m not offering it.” He looped the tie around his neck and crossed it. “I told you I would work you hard.”

  Somehow I still suspected there was a double meaning there, but all I said was, “good.”

  “Did I choose correctly?”

  It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the tie. My hand reached out absently and smoothed it down. Even through the layers, I could feel the hardness of his body underneath. “I chose.”

  “Ah yes. Beauty’s privilege.” His eyes sparked as he spoke, and I sensed he was looking past the words we exchanged and the few moments we had shared, searching for a place I’d locked away.

  I turned away, afraid to let him find it.

  Belle stood at my bedroom window, enveloped in the first light of dawn. The warmth of it wrapped around her, making her porcelain skin glow pink. Her simple ivory sheath dress hugged her body, revealing her slight curves. The ensemble was relatively chaste, if suggestive, save for the leopard print heels she’d chosen—yet another sign of a wild side that she tried to hide. As she stared, her expression changed from fascination to sadness. I still couldn’t read her. She remained an enigma, but part of me empathized with the sudden bouts of melancholy that seemed to color her world.

  I cleared my throat politely, not wanting to scare her. “Good morning.”

  She spun around to greet me, a look of relief crossing her face. “Oh, you’re dressed!”

  Had she hoped I wouldn’t be? Was she as preoccupied with what was beneath my clothes as I was with what was beneath hers? Her gaze swept over me appreciatively. She liked suits, and I had a fucking closet full of them.

  “We have lots to do today.” I pointed to a coffee mug sitting on my bedside table. “Is that for me?”

  “No, it’s for me. I thought I’d drag myself across the city to make myself coffee.” She rolled her eyes as she picked up the cup and brought it to me.

  “Not a fan of coffee?”

  A slight grin played at her lips, but she held it back. “I’m a Brit. I drink tea.”

  “I suppose us Scots are less discriminating,” I said, before taking a hesitant sip. I hadn’t been there to oversee her use of the machine.

  “I didn’t poison it.” She twisted her hands, undermining her antagonistic facade.

  She wanted to please me, even if she pretended otherwise. Things were getting interesting.

  “It’s good,” I reassured her. “Precisely to my preference.”

  “Black coffee isn’t that hard.” She shook her head with a disapproving sigh.

  “I suppose you take your tea with milk and sugar?”

  “You suppose correctly. Do you find that repulsive?”

  “No. I might bring you tea one morning.” I made a mental note to have my housekeeper pick up bags.

  She cast a dubious glance at me but said nothing.

  “Let’s get on with the tour,” I snapped. Since she didn’t respond to kindness, there was no point in operating under false pretenses. We both seemed to prefer when I was an asshole.

  “Shall we start at the bottom?” she suggested.

  Beautiful, you’re staying bottom, I thought. Outwardly, I jerked my head and strode toward the lift, pleased that she had to run to catch me. You have no idea how hard it’s going to be to keep up with me.

  As soon as the lift doors shut, the space contracted and I had to inhale deeply.

  She eyed me in concern. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied in a clipped tone. I kept my gaze and thoughts on her tits until the doors slid back open.

  Belle darted out and headed into the garage—the only area she was familiar with. I didn’t bother to correct her. Instead I headed left, banking into a hallway. She didn’t like to be told what to do. I appreciated that in a woman, but she needed to learn that I was the one in control.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded when she finally caught up to me.

  I smirked but didn’t stop to acknowledge her. “On the tour.”

  “I thought maybe you would take me for that ride in the Veyron.” She took a step closer, crossing her arms behind her back and drawing attention to her breasts.

  A simpering request. Well-played. I’d been impressed that she knew the make and model of my personal car yesterday. This morning’s initiative sealed what I already suspected.

  I turned on her. “You like cars.”

  “I guess,” she hedged, but it was written all over her body—flushed cheeks, quick, shallow breaths. Unrestrained lust practically dripped off her. She ran her tongue over her lower lip, leaving her sinfully red lipstick glistening while proving my point. An image of her mouth closing over my cock flashed to mind.

  “You do.” I stepped closer, noting how her body shifted toward mine. “I said I’d take you for a ride. Now you have to earn it.”

  I walked away, leaving her panting in the hall. Surreptitiously, I adjusted my hard-on before opening the door at the end of the passage. I could fuck her right here. Or take her back to the garage and screw her against the Bugatti. She’d like that. There’d be no fight. That car was a guaranteed leg-spreader. There would also be no chase—and I loved the pursuit.

  I chose to start with my least favorite feature of the house. The faint aroma of chlorine seeped through the open door as I showed her my private lap pool. The smell made my stomach roil. but I’d learned to ignore that.

  “You have a swimming pool?” she shrieked.

  Despite myself, I grinned at her enthusiasm. “It was added in the seventies. You’re welcome to use it.”

  We continued our progress through the house, which somehow felt more extravagant with Belle struck silent with awe at my side. I’d never looked at the property as anything more than a showpiece—a relic meant to project a familial grandeur that never was. Now I couldn’t help seeing it through her eyes.

  “We need to purchase some art,” Belle said, noting the bare walls that accompanied most floors.

  I allowed a tight smile. Perhaps I was being too encouraging of her enthusiasm. “I recently painted. I prefer an uncluttered space.”

  “That’s a shame. This place is practically a gallery.” She spoke wistfully as her eyes continued to scan the blank space. “Maybe—”

  “Out here is the garden,” I interrupted her. Watch out for the hole I’m currently digging myself into.

  She took the hint and lapsed back into silence. My gaze darted to her periodically as I continued the tour. Her initial shock over my house had dissipated. I’d assumed that she’d been in grander estates, given the company she kept. Her amazement had been directed at me. No doubt she’d begin to ask unwanted questions soon.

  On the third floor, I ushered her through a cluster of guest rooms.

  “Does anyone actually use these?”

  “My housekeeper sees they’re kept fresh.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Mrs. Andrews did dust and change the sheets purely out of compulsion. Most of the rooms hadn’t been slept in for years.

  “Do you have guests stay often?” Once again Belle seemed psychically in tune with my inner thoughts. I couldn’t deny her mysterious insight made her more alluring. Perhaps that’s why I kept her around. I was hoping to discover the trick behind the magic.

  “Very rarely.” I opened a door at the end of the hall. “This is your bedroom.”

  “My bedroom?”

  I couldn’t resist. “Unless there’s another room you’d prefer to sleep in.”

  “I have a flat,” she said, bypassing my insinuation.

  “Believe me, I’m not asking you to move in.” I couldn’t think of anything I wanted less in the world. Mrs. Andrews nagged me enough during the hours we were both on premises. Two ladies of the house would be untenable. “There will be times when I need you until very late or I require you here very early. You may choose to use this room on those occasions if you prefer.”r />
  Belle stepped inside the suite and pivoted slowly around, taking it in. The room was decorated in hues of champagne, from the creamy silk curtains to the oversized king bed made up with a golden coverlet. Sunlight shimmered across the gilded damask wallpaper. It was an elegant space—understated while still opulent. She belonged here.

  “There’s a private bath attached.” I motioned to a door in the corner. “You may keep anything you wish here.”

  “I’ll consider your offer,” she said as she exited. She paused in the corridor, her attention focused directly across from her on the only closed door in the hall. “Another guest room?”

  I didn’t look at the room “No.”

  She walked past me and jiggled the handle. “Locked?”

  “I prefer that room remains undisturbed.” I gestured toward the hall we had come down, trying to ignore the faint memories forcing themselves to the front of my mind.

  “What’s in there?” she pushed.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” I snarled.

  “You’ve made it pretty clear that I need to know everything about your life, so I can only assume you keep your murder weapons in here!” She huffed as she finished her rant, waiting for me to respond.

  I stalked away, laughing humorlessly at her suggestion.

  “The tour’s over,” I called over my shoulder as I dashed off a list on my mobile. “I’m sending you a to-do list. Finish it and meet me at Harrods at ten sharp.”

  “Yes, sir,” she hissed.

  Sir. I’d pressed her buttons. “Garrison will drive—”

  “I can drive myself,” she yelled.

  I knew she could, because she’d been driving me crazy since we met. “I don’t care who drives you. Just leave.”

  “Gladly.” Her tone was flat as she pushed past me and smacked the button for the lift.

  She entered it and turned to glare at me. Neither of us made a move to prevent the doors from sliding closed. I stayed there, eyes transfixed on the lift. I was caught in limbo. All it would have taken was one act to move forward and away from the ghosts lingering at the end of this hall. I couldn’t turn to face them and I couldn’t walk away. Belle had seen that, but she didn’t understand it. She never could.

  I wouldn’t let her.

  I stepped through the glass door of Harrods and breathed in the familiar smell. Some people might not believe shoes and designer dresses had a scent, but they did. The rich aroma of soft-grain leather and linen mixed with floral notes from the department store’s display of fine teas and the perfume counters. With any luck, I had a little credit on my account and could pick out a treat to celebrate my new job. I hadn’t charged anything for months, not since I’d found myself suddenly single. But surviving my first days working for Smith Price deserved a reward.

  Before the glass door had shut behind me, a woman swooped over, dressed in an unapologetically plum dress suit that matched her lipstick. A large Harrods’ badge pinned to her lapel read Harriet. She offered me a tentative smile. “Miss Stuart?”

  I froze in place before nodding.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.” The hesitancy in her expression vanished, replaced by a warmer, if slightly less than genuine, smile.

  “I must be later on paying my charge account than I thought if you’re meeting me at the door.”

  “What?” she asked, the joke whizzing right over her smooth black hair. She tilted her chin, as if to puzzle me out.

  “I usually don’t get met by name at the door somewhere unless I’m in trouble.” I tried to sound light-hearted, but inside my stomach churned. There had been a time when I was met at restaurants and parties by people eager to introduce themselves. Or rather to meet Philip’s fiancée. That time had passed.

  “Oh! Nothing like that!” Her polite laugh tinkled like a bell—too high and practiced. She’d obviously been working here a long time. “Mr. Price informed us you would be arriving.”

  “Did he send over my mug shot?”

  “You’re so funny.” She batted my arm as if we were lifelong friends.

  I hated her already.

  “Mr. Price described you—in perfect detail, I must say.” Winking at me, she motioned for me to follow her toward the lift. “You’re quite lucky to have a man who is so attentive.”

  “He’s my boss,” I said flatly, even though butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I spoke.

  That revelation shut her up, and we enjoyed a blissful silence as the lift carried us to the fifth floor. The opening of the doors broke the magic spell, and she began to chatter again. Something about starting with the base pieces and building toward ensembles. I stopped listening to her. I had more important things on my mind.

  Smith Price had described me in perfect detail. What did that mean? My height and build? Any stranger could do that. But I had hardly been the first petite blonde to walk through Harrods’ doors this morning. He had to have told her more.

  “Excuse me¸” I said, interrupting her blather about the rising importance of proper stockings. “How did Mr. Price describe me?”

  She paused as if to recall. “I believe he referenced you as a sophisticated blonde. About eight stone with a 32B breast size. He also guessed you’d be wearing Louboutins.”

  This circus trick obviously impressed her, but it only surprised me. He’d perfectly sized me up, down to noticing my shoes.

  “Of course, he didn’t know they were Louboutins. He mentioned the red sole,” she continued, adding, “He did ask that we pull a selection. I was truly sorry when I told him we didn’t carry them.”

  “Me too.” I didn’t know what else to say. Not with my head swimming over the fact that Smith had been so attentive. Then again, after yesterday’s show in his bedroom, I could guess his shirt size…amongst other things.

  Harriet led me past the front desk of the Penthouse, where By Appointment, Harrods personal shopping service, was housed, to a private fitting room. Sleek leather armchairs clustered around a large turquoise ottoman, and against the wall not one rack, but three racks of clothing waited. They must have pulled every piece in my size that the store had. This was hardly the first time I had been to Harrods, but it was the first time I was treated like royalty—and I’d been here before with Clara.

  “Does Mr. Price do this often?” I asked. The whole spectacle smacked of the sort of privilege afforded to wealthy men that readily flashed their wallets.

  “I’ve never worked with him before, but my manager was very clear on Mr. Price’s expectations. She was also clear that we meet them all.”

  Enough said. Then again, I’d thrown on clothes yesterday to attend him on a whim. Smith Price might simply be a man who got what he wanted.

  Except me.

  I wandered over to the racks, brushing my fingers across the silky fabrics. Shopping had been a luxury I couldn’t afford the last few months after cutting up Philip’s credit cards. Although he’d left me with a stocked closet in addition to my broken heart, I had grown tired of window shopping. Enough so that I’d hatched a business idea. A company that catered to women with tastes that exceeded their bank accounts. Women like me.

  A tag snagged against my palm, and I flipped it over absent-mindedly. My mouth fell open when I saw the price. There was taste like mine and then there was taste like Smith Price’s. I shouldn’t be shocked given that I’d seen his house, but even I had never spent such an extravagant amount on a piece of clothing.

  “Did he give you parameters?” I tucked the obscene price tag inside the neckline, unable to look at it.

  “The most expensive pieces from our top lines,” Harriet answered as she joined me. She pushed apart the gowns to reveal the one I’d just stumbled upon. I glanced over to tell her to take it away and spotted him. Harriet rattled off more particulars, but I didn’t hear her.

  Smith was in the doorway, his eyes studying me intently. He’d looked at me this way each time we met, as if I was a puzzle he was trying to lock into place. Or maybe he was hop
ing to fill a certain open slot. I turned back to the racks, my face burning. I told myself it was embarrassment that a man I barely knew thought I needed a new wardrobe. But that wasn’t it. The heat I felt had nothing to do with my emotions. No, it came from somewhere deeper—a place I’d sealed away with my own psychological chastity belt.

  I sensed him behind me before he spoke, his presence silently urging me to step back and close the space between us. It took a record-breaking amount of willpower not to do just that.

  “Belle.” He said my name softly, as though he was tasting it.

  Closing my eyes, I took a steadying breath before I turned to greet him. “I thought you said ten sharp.”

  “A client needed a moment of my time.” The answer was final and more than a tad bit dismissive.

  “That reminds me.” I switched the topic to business, eager to clear the tension in the air. “Exactly what area of law do you practice?”

  “The gray area,” he replied in a clipped tone.

  A tingle danced up my spine. Suddenly the house, the cars, the extravagance made a little more sense. Terrible people needed lawyers who could be paid to look the other way. Before I could attach judgment to this revelation, I realized I was no better than he was. Not while I worked for him.

  “Will you require a model, or do you want to try on the garments personally?” Harriet broke in. This time I was grateful for her obliviousness.

  “She’ll try them on,” Smith decided for me.

  It irked me that he’d made the call, even though I had the same preference. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  “You two must have a wonderful working relationship,” Harriet gushed.

  I grabbed something from the rack and dashed into the attached dressing room before I laughed. Tense? Yes. Awkward? Yes. Sexually volatile? Hell yes. But wonderful? No. I hung the dress on a hook and sank against the wall, staring at it. Simple, black but with a cut that made it something more than a little black dress. No, this was a statement. It was exactly the kind of thing I would pick out.