Hers To Keep: THE QUINTESSENCE COLLECTION I

by Akeroyd, Serena

  Kicking himself for not being sensitive, he slid a hand over the side of the car as he appreciated its silken lines.

  Like Germans or not, they were good at making two things: money and cars.

  He didn’t care what Sean had to say about Maseratis. Nothing beat the engineering beauty of the R8 Spyder.

  Climbing behind the wheel, he navigated out of the clinic’s parking lot and onto the main road.

  London, as always, was chaotic. Even now, when it was technically quieter, as everyone was inside their offices for the workday, there was a zip of energy that whizzed through the air. Almost like Tinkerbell spraying magical fairy dust wherever she went, London vibrated with a special energy.

  Since meeting Sean, Devon, Kurt, and Sawyer at college in Oxford, he’d never lived outside of the UK. But for his work, he’d traveled the globe.

  Madrid, Oslo, New York even… nothing compared in his opinion.

  As he veered toward Soho and managed to get stuck in a traffic jam, even though the congestion fees for driving in the city were supposed to reduce traffic, he turned toward Sascha. Had he needed proof she was unwell, she’d just handed it to him on a platter. It was barely approaching lunchtime, and after climbing into the car, she’d rested her head against the window and fallen asleep.

  He watched the deep rise and fall of her breasts, and noted her hands were gently open where they rested on her lap, the fingers unfurled and relaxed in a way that told him her sleep wasn’t feigned and that she was at peace. Not that she’d have to pretend with him, but he noted the sign anyway.

  He let her rest, navigating through London without uttering a peep, though he did lower the volume of the radio, the classical station a soothing drone of instruments.

  She needed the sleep. Her love life aside—which admittedly was beyond the pale for most women… five men to one woman were odds most couldn’t compute—the rest of her life was also turning into… Well, he wasn’t sure what.

  His life hadn’t been easy. Yes, he’d always had money and a certain semblance of power. Though his family was, to anyone’s definition, corrupt to the core, they were high ranking in Russian society, commanded respect and fear from most.

  But he’d lost his mother because of his father’s stature. Had seen her killed before his very eyes. So, no, life hadn’t been easy. Not that it was for anyone, Sascha included.

  She’d been purposefully knocked over a few weeks before—hence the concussion and the doctor’s visit. A gala she and Andrei had been scheduled to attend had suffered an explosion thanks to a bomb blast… And she’d just learned that her mother wasn’t her mother, and her father wasn’t her father.

  Yes, things were certainly far more complicated than most could handle. Yet, she seemed to be doing just that.

  Handling it.

  When they’d learned the uncomfortable truth about her parents, the five of them had dreaded sharing the news with her. But a household such as theirs depended on honesty. They’d kept certain things back from her, not out of malice or duplicitousness, but because she’d been recuperating.

  Honesty was the only way six people could make a relationship work.

  If anyone knew that, it was them. Sacha wasn’t the first partner they’d had, after all. But it was amazing how difficult it was to be truthful. Of course, that wasn’t on their part, but on the part of women they’d seen in the past.

  Pursing his lips, he pulled into a parking space a short walk from the bakery. Fortune on his side, he pondered whether to wake her or to simply grab a selection of pastries. Whenever she came here, she always mentioned it. But she never mentioned what she ate. He realized they’d done her a disservice by never having brought her here before.

  They led insular lives. Worlds that revolved around their house in Kensington. But Sascha wasn’t like them. She was a firebird. She needed to fly, to go out and explore. If they didn’t take that into consideration, they could lose her to that need for flight one day. A notion that disturbed him.

  Deeply.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Her voice was gravelly with sleep and made him jolt in surprise; he hadn’t realized she’d woken.

  He turned to look at her and smiled. “You look better for the nap.”

  “How long did I sleep?”

  “I got caught in traffic near Harvey Nicks,” he grimaced. “So, you probably had thirty minutes?”

  Her eyes widened. “Wow. I feel like I had longer.” She peered around, took note of their surroundings, and smiled. “We’re here.”

  “I promised you cake, didn’t I?”

  “Donuts are the name of today’s game. But what about coffee?” she teased.

  “That too. I think I can afford two.”

  Her grin nearly lit up the car with its beauty, and his heart stuttered at the sight of it. Jesus, she was beautiful. Inside and out.

  “You’re not supposed to look at me like that anymore. Remember?”

  Her voice was more teasing than serious, but he pulled a face nonetheless. “How am I supposed to stop?”

  “It’s hard being beautiful,” she mocked, but jolted in surprise when he reached out to cup her jaw, tilted her head, and then carefully, gently, pressed his lips to hers.

  She moaned against his mouth and he swallowed the sound. Loving it, loving her. Everything about her.

  Her taste, her touch, her scent.

  Her hand came up to cup his cheek, and he wasn’t sure if she was trying to push him away, until she moaned again and slipped her tongue between his lips.

  He growled under his breath. She was aggressive, this one. Not the kind to lay back and think of England. She was a partner, in all the meanings of the word.

  And there came that word again… perfect.

  Her tongue fucked his mouth, driving him to the brink of his control. She dropped a hand, her fingers stunning him by molding his cock through the folds of his trousers.

  “No,” he argued, pulling away from her to issue the command.

  Her pout had him groaning. “Just my hand. That’s it.”

  “We’ll get arrested!” he retorted, but he was amused. She was hungry for him. It was in her eyes, in the dewy perspiration that misted her face. In the way her breasts heaved with each breath.

  He let out another growl when her fingers flexed around his shaft again. “Dammit, no, Sascha.”

  Her mouth pursed into a moue. “Pussy tease.”

  “I just wanted a kiss!”

  Sascha ducked her head, but it was too late, he saw her grin.

  He sighed. “You’re going to be the death of us.”

  “Me! Well, I like that,” she grumbled. Then, pouting all the more, declared, “If you’re going to be mean, then the least you can do is buy me a donut. Two of them.”

  He grimaced as he adjusted himself.

  “Two donuts. Coming up.”

  * * *

  It was almost amusing watching Andrei in the small bakery.

  Managed by a family of Italians who had moved here back in the fifties, the place was authentic. None of the mass chain bullshit.

  Everything was baked or prepared fresh, made with honest-to-God food not chemicals, and the coffee was the bomb.

  But Andrei, in the small store, was a sight to behold.

  He and Sean were the most... Corporate?

  Is that the right adjective? she asked herself.

  They were usually in suits when they left the house because they had business, more often than not, in the City. If they weren’t wearing suits, they were in dress pants with a sweater. Everything shrieking high-end label, mind. Nothing mainstream for her babes, and nothing that didn’t have the ability to make her core turn nuclear because of how delicious they were to look at in their sexy formalwear.

  That he was wearing a suit now told her he’d be heading for a meeting at some point this afternoon. She was used to that. And at the moment, the last thing she wanted was her own company, so she knew she’d be pestering whoever
was at home for some loving.

  Well, not some of the good stuff. Just… chitchat, a hug. If she was alone, she’d think, and thinking wasn’t good. Not when her past was made up of more lies than a political campaign.

  The very foundation of her world was, to put it lightly, bullshit.

  “Could this place get any smaller?” he grumbled, breaking into her uncomfortable musings as he placed two mugs on the table. They were brimming with coffee. Freshly percolated. Not from a steam machine.

  She wasn’t sure why the difference satisfied her. Just that it did. Or maybe it was that it reminded her of home. The diners her father had taken her to for treats, pancakes, or waffles. All while he ate eggs and Canadian bacon and had endlessly topped-off mugs of coffee from waitresses in pink uniforms and white pinnies.

  The memory had her smiling, because London was very different in a lot of ways. Staff here wore black pants and a polo shirt blazoned with the Rossi’s logo on it. Not a pinafore or squeaky white trainers in sight.

  She reached for the coffee and took a sip. It was bitter, and all the more reason for her to prefer tea, but the nostalgia always worked against her.

  “Your waffles won’t be long,” he assured her after drinking some of his own coffee.

  She’d decided against donuts in the end—not that it would stop her from taking some home. “Are you having anything to eat?”

  He shook his head. “Not hungry.”

  “Did you eat breakfast?” She narrowed her eyes at him. Ever since the accident, she’d been lax with breakfast… dinner, she still made an effort. Sometimes, on the days when her head wasn’t hurting too badly, she made enough for two days so that they always had a meal if she wasn’t up to cooking the next day.

  But breakfast?

  Just waking up before nine was becoming a chore.

  He shook his head. “I didn’t want any.”

  She pursed her lips, then smiling at the server who placed her plate of waffles before her, complete with macerated cherries, strawberries, and heaps of whipped cream, asked, “Do you have any granola left over from breakfast?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Can I have a portion, please?”

  Andrei didn’t say anything, just sighed when the waiter disappeared to fulfil the order. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m quite capable of ordering food for myself.”

  “Apparently not if you chose not to have anything to eat,” she told him primly, then cut into the mountain of sugary carbs with a happy sigh.

  Her world might be going around the bend, but there were always carbs to make any shitty day gleam a whole hell of a lot brighter.

  Twenty-Four

  “Dad?” she asked in surprise.

  Eying the clock, she frowned. It was late in Tucson.

  “Sweetheart!”

  She winced at the bounce to his tone, feeling guilty because she hadn’t called him since he’d revealed he’d split up with her least favorite person—her stepmother, Linda.

  It was hard to feel pity for him, because she’d never seen the relationship lasting anyway. Which made her feel even guiltier.

  Linda had always been a control freak, and though that had probably pleased her father at first, after close to a decade and a half of it, it had to grow stifling. Linda took cleaning to an OCD kind of level.

  No one could deal with that forever. Well, not unless they were extremely patient, and her father, for all his good points, certainly wasn’t that. If anything, he was the king of impatience.

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  Her eyes widened at the continued chirp in his voice—he sounded positively effervescent. Another first.

  Jesus, doing without Linda must be doing him good! she thought.

  “Yeah? What surprise is that?” she asked, going along with him.

  “I’m here.”

  “You’re here?” She frowned, confused by the statement. “Where’s here?”

  “Heathrow!”

  She almost dropped her phone, and instead of that, sank back into the overlarge sofa in the first-floor lounge.

  “You’re at Heathrow?”

  “I sure am, baby.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to visit?”

  “I’m telling you now. Anyway, I need an address. Where are you living now?”

  She blinked, recited the Kensington address, and murmured, “Just wait there and I’ll come and get you.”

  “No. It’s okay. I’m in the taxi anyway. I knew it was Kensington.” He said something she didn’t catch to the driver; whose Cockney accent came loud and clear over the phone: he wasn’t bullshitting.

  He was here. In London. And only forty goddamn minutes away!

  Jesus!

  Her mouth worked as she tried to process exactly what the fuck was going on here.

  Her dad not only hated traveling, but hated leaving the U.S. As far as she was aware, he didn’t even have a passport. Had always said there was too much to see in the States without spending his hard-earned bucks elsewhere.

  “I’ll see you soon, buttercup!” he almost sang down the line, cutting the call before she could do more than stutter at him.

  She looked blindly ahead at the daytime TV trash she’d had on while she was crocheting, then scratched her forehead.

  “Where’s he going to sleep?”

  The question should have been a simple one. But this place wasn’t hers. Even if she wasn’t sleeping with the bosses, she’d never have been comfortable asking her employers to put up a guest on her behalf.

  Still, this was her home. Sean and the others repeatedly told her that. So, it made sense that her father could stay here.

  But the only spare bedroom was her own. And if she gave her father that room, then he’d, quite naturally, ask where she slept.

  Which meant what? Explaining she was sleeping with not one, not two, not even three men, but five? And her employers to boot?

  Gulping at the thought of her father decking one of the guys, she scrambled to her feet. Immediately regretting it when her head pounded dully, making her feel faint.

  “God, I’m getting pretty fucking tired of this concussion,” she grumbled as she stumbled out of the lounge and into the hall.

  And oh, boy, what a reminder that was… Her dad still didn’t know about the accident. She could hide the concussion, but her damn arm was still in a cast. There was no hiding that, and she had zero intention of freaking him out about the current circumstances.

  Not with…

  Her throat felt thick as she realized this entire mess had led to the inevitable conclusion that Henry Dubois wasn’t actually her father. That neither of the parents she’d loved all her life were biologically hers. So, no, she couldn’t handle that confrontation yet. Nor could he, considering he’d just been dumped by his wife.

  Thoughts heavy, she headed for Sean’s office. When she walked in and saw he was on the phone, she half-staggered over to one of the armchairs. Kurt was seated in his, and he smiled in greeting when he looked up from his laptop.

  She smiled wanly back, which in turn had him frowning and putting his laptop on the floor. When he made to stand, she held up a hand to stall him.

  She should have known one of the others would be in here. For many, the lounge would be the house’s meeting point. Either that, or the kitchen. But not here. Sean’s office was where the gang all got together.

  Sean caught her eye as she rested in the armchair, and she could tell he ended the conversation quicker than intended. His tone shifted from a rumbling baritone to an abrupt, clipped snap. He evenly told the other person on the line that he’d speak to them later and hung up.

  “What’s wrong?” he immediately asked, leaning forward in his seat where he’d been rocking back and forth.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Per se.”

  Kurt rubbed his forehead. “You’re going to have to explain that, Sascha. Wrong has taken a different perspective of late.”

  She grim
aced at the truth in his words.

  Gulping, she admitted, “My father just called.”

  “You talked to him about what we found out?” Sean’s tone softened with sympathy, and he got to his feet to crouch down before her. Placing his hand on her knee, he squeezed. “Are you okay?”

  She winced. She’d known for just over five days now that her father and mother were that in name but not in blood.

  The guys had wanted her to speak with her father, ask what the hell was going on, but she’d been putting it off. Finding it too hard to broach the topic. Now, it looked like she wouldn’t have a choice. And now, a whole lot of secrets were about to spill forth.

  Not just on his end either.

  For him to stay here, she’d have to bunk up with one of the men. Not that that was a problem. She spent more time playing musical bedrooms anyway. For her father, on the other hand, problem was an understatement. She highly doubted he’d be okay with the arrangement.

  She bit her lip, and Kurt groaned. “You haven’t told him, have you?”

  Turning to look at him, she ducked her head. “No.”

  Sean sighed. “Why not?”

  “I just… Look, that doesn’t matter. He just called me, and he’s here.”

  “Here?” Sean nearly toppled over in his surprise, a reaction that had her giggling. Despite the approaching calamity that was Henry Dubois.

  Of them all, Sean was always cool and calm under pressure. To see him nearly fall flat on his ass was more amusing than she could say.

  He rolled his eyes at her, then stood so he could perch on the armrest beside her.

  “Here as in London?” Kurt clarified.

  “Yeah,” she gulped. “He’s twenty minutes away.”

  “Wow. That’s close.”

  “Understatement,” she corrected. “Where’s he going to sleep?”

  Sean blinked at her. “Ah.”

  “Yes. Ah. I really don’t want to have this conversation with him. Not yet, anyway. I’d have preferred it if he was five thousand miles away. It would have been a hell of a lot easier.”