The hotel’s wifi was slow, as is the case where almost a thousand people connect to a network, not that Arthur had allowed his phone to join it, of course.
Arthur’s phone’s hotspot was much faster.
Within seconds, guests’ phones began automatically latching onto his wifi as they sought the fastest connection.
He had a bait screen already set up, a link on a white screen that asked the user to click the link to accept the terms and conditions.
The link downloaded a virus onto their phones.
Why would Arthur have a bait screen and virus ready to go on his phone?
Because sometimes, even for the best of men, the black hat needs to come out of the closet.
For the vast majority of the people in the room, the virus would self-destruct in a few minutes.
Arthur watched his phone’s screen, waiting.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christopher tap his phone.
Christopher’s phone number, which Arthur had noted on the incessant court papers, appeared on the scrolling list.
He smiled.
He tapped Christopher’s number and then sent everyone else’s phones back to the public wifi with a swipe of his finger.
But now, Arthur had control of Christopher’s phone.
Arthur wiped some of the pictures off of the phone’s internal card, including the one that Christopher had taken when he had shoved Gen on the dance floor. Christopher didn’t have a cloud account to back up his pictures. That was a shame for him.
Arthur didn’t wipe the pictures of Christopher’s daughters, his nieces. Several pictures of the kids at various functions, dance lessons and sports practices, occupied some space on the phone’s memory card.
That was sweet.
Arthur sent a bit of code into one of them, an implant, and hoped that Christopher backed up his pictures on his computer hard drive.
Then he deleted all the contacts from Christopher’s phone, copied and deleted the texts, and scrubbed all the saved internet passwords.
He left a small back door so that he could hack Christopher’s phone whenever he wanted to, and he uploaded a bit of code that would send copies of Christopher’s texts, pictures, and internet activity to an account for Arthur to watch.
No compromising pictures of Arthur were on the phone, however. If such photographs did exist—and Arthur had no reason to believe that they didn’t—then the private investigator probably still had them. Hacking Christopher’s phone was an exercise in mere revenge, not in managing the situation.
Still felt brilliant, though.
Over on the other side of the bar, Christopher’s gestures grew bigger, flailing wildly.
Arthur allowed himself a small smile. He probably wouldn’t have hacked Christopher’s phone under other circumstances, but he’d had quite a lot of those vodka tonics. Everything devious seemed like a jolly good idea at that moment.
Indeed, the warmth from Gen’s body washed over his hand that was near her waist, and that dress clung to her curves like it had been painted on. Dancing with her in his arms had wound his body up until he was ready to grab her and pull her tight to his chest.
He wouldn’t, but the image of her breasts pushing against his chest and the feeling of her arms around his neck from earlier when they had practiced kissing would not leave his mind.
He wanted more. He wanted her now or at least when they got home. When they walked into his dark, empty apartment, he wanted to lift her in his arms, carry her to his bed, and tear that gown off her.
He might leave the diamond set on her. The way the gems sparkled against her soft skin enticed him.
He might not want to take the time to get it off of her.
Must be the alcohol talking. Arthur knew better.
Maybe—and he paused, considering the advisability of it—maybe he would take her to Spencer House for the weekend.
The manor house felt like home to Arthur in a way that the apartment never did, and he wanted to see what she thought of it, whether she liked it, whether she might enjoy the deer park, the formal gardens, or the art collection.
Yes, Gen and Spencer House. The anger washed out of him at the very thought.
He asked Gen, “Ready to go home?”
“Sure.” She said to the bartender, “Thanks, honey!”
“You’re quite welcome.” The bartender grinned at Gen.
Arthur slipped the bartender another twenty quid and earned himself a smile, too.
DESENSITIZATION THERAPY
Gen paced in her room.
She’d had too much to drink, she knew. That last glass of wine she had chugged while Arthur had been fiddling with his phone had been one more of several too many.
Christopher was such an asshole, and just seeing him standing there, sneering after he had pushed her, had made her body lock up.
The alcohol had seemed to calm her down.
Now, everything was boiling in her head.
The court case, of course, was at the top of her mind. They hadn’t managed to pull off the kiss in public like Gen had promised Octavia they would.
The hearing wasn’t for months, and she kept combing through all the briefs and paperwork, searching for typos and tweaking the language.
But the alcohol was making her think crazier thoughts, too.
Things like, she and Arthur seemed to have a real friendship, a real connection. She didn’t freak out when he touched her hand and when he held her close when they were dancing. All the crazy about men was calming down in her head.
She trusted Arthur.
She trusted him a lot.
And she wanted the crazy to go away forever.
Wine simmered in her veins, telling her that this was a very good idea.
Gen strode out of her bedroom, through the kitchen where she and Arthur had shared a firm handshake that evening, and to the short hallway to his bedroom.
Arthur’s bedroom doorknob turned easily in Gen’s hand. He didn’t lock his bedroom door, either.
See? It was a sign.
The dark hallway stretched sideways to her right, toward the living room with the balcony beyond.
The door cracked open, the hinges silent as ghosts.
Gen pushed the door open.
Inside, the room was mostly darkened, except for a small light beside the door that shone on her face. She blinked as her eyes acclimated to the light, and she raised her hand to block the glare.
Arthur’s voice came to her from the darkness around the edges of the room. “Gen?” he asked. “What are you doing?”
She squinted at the gloom again. “Um—”
Something heavy thumped on hollow wood like a small barbell dropped in a drawer.
On the far side of the room, wide windows cut into the wall nearly to the ceiling. Faint moonlight glowed in the panes. A silhouette of a man’s form was a darker shadow in the gray. His broad shoulders tapered to his slim waist, and he stood with his hands braced on his trim hips.
His shoulders rose and fell as he sighed. “Come on. Let’s get you back to your room.”
“I’m not drunk,” Gen insisted. Not really.
Okay, she totally was, but it didn’t make a difference.
“I’m drunk, a bit.” Arthur said, his voice right beside her in the dark. With the blinding nightlight near the door, she hadn’t even seen him move in the blackened room. Slivers of silver from the night light traced the tops of his biceps below the dark tee shirt he wore. He said, “Come on. Time to go back to the guest bedroom.”
In the beam from the nightlight, he held out his hand, palm up.
Just like in the car and on the couch and all the times since.
All Gen had to do was reach out and take it—
—and Arthur would lead her back to her guest room like she was a naughty little girl, caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
Fuck it. This time, she was going to grab the cookies.
Arthur was as delicious as a big, cho
colate, silver-eyed, crumbly cookie.
That analogy had gone south somewhere, but she was starving for him.
She grasped Arthur’s hand and used the surprise to drag him forward a step toward herself. “I don’t want to go back to my room.”
His body hardened like he was straining against ropes. “Gen—”
“Call it desensitization therapy. Call it getting the hell over it. Call it whatever you want.” She slid her hands up his chest, her fingers rounding over the heavy pectoral muscles on his chest and up over his shoulders. Damn, seriously, how much time did Arthur spend at the gym? “Make me forget.”
His hands rested on her waist. “A month ago, you could barely touch my hand.”
“But I got better. And now it’s okay.”
“When I kissed you earlier this evening, you nearly climbed the wall to get away.”
“That was before.”
“Before what, a few bottles of wine?” His fingers squeezed her sides, just firm pressure. “You should have professional therapy, not one drunken night that might increase your distress.”
“I don’t want therapy.” She leaned forward, pressing her breasts against the soft tee shirt that he wore. “I want you.”
Arthur’s deep inhale swelled his chest, pushing against her. “You’re making this very difficult.”
“Then stop resisting,” she said.
He untangled her hands from around his neck. “Your American boyfriends may have taken any opportunity to slake their lust, but I’m an Englishman. I can resist because it’s best for both of us.”
“Best for you? How is a case of blue balls best for you?”
He bent his head and brushed his lips across hers, the slightest of kisses, and he crowded her back against the wall behind her.
Trapping her.
Tremors crawled through Gen, shaking her body, rattling her bones against each other until she thought she would come apart, but Arthur had already retreated from her.
Near her ear, he whispered, “Because I won’t do something that will harm you.”
“I’ll be okay. You can make me okay. We’re friends, and maybe if I was with someone I trust, someone who knows what they’re doing—”
“I am many things, but I’m not a sex therapist and I’m not a gigolo. I won’t be used as such. And you might not be fine. If you are upset afterward, I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“I’m fine. Maybe if I had another drink—”
“And I certainly won’t take advantage of you when we’ve both been drinking quite a lot. It was a long, upsetting evening.”
“I’m sorry,” Gen said. “I didn’t mean to put you in a bad position. I should have known that I wasn’t your type. I’m not anyone’s type. I shouldn’t have imposed.”
“Oh, no.” His breath warmed her shoulder through the chiffon of her evening gown. He’d stepped forward again in the dark. “On the contrary. It’s a good thing that I am an Englishman and a paragon of self-control,” he caught her hand and pressed her knuckles to his chest, “or else I certainly would have ravished you. Having a beautiful woman offer herself to me in my bedroom late at night is more than any man should have to resist.” He chuckled. “I’ve had too much to drink. I’m thinking in French. It happens sometimes.”
Under her fingers, his heart was racing like he had run miles.
She said, “I’m not your type, and it’s okay. I know it. You don’t have to say it.”
“What should I not say?” he murmured.
“That I’m your type, when I’m not.”
His lips brushed her knuckles, and his voice was low and husky. “You are my type. You’re simply beautiful. Your hair is thick and lustrous, and I want to see it spread over my pillow and wrapped around my fists. Your body is lush and womanly, and I want to bury myself in you and forget everything. I would love to tie your arms and your long, long legs spread-eagled to those bedposts so I can look at every bit of you and play with you for an hour before I let you come. I wish I could strip this dress off you this very moment and have my way with you. If I’d had just one more vodka tonic, you would be in my arms tonight and probably in emergency therapy tomorrow. Let’s discuss this in the light of day when we’re both sober, shall we?”
She nodded because she couldn’t think of a word to say. Everything he had said was spinning in her head.
“Come.” He stepped back and, reaching over her head, opened his door wider. “Let’s get you back to your bedroom.”
He led her by the hand through the wide kitchen to her room. In the dim light of the kitchen, she could see his black tee shirt and pajama pants. The shirt had a triangle with an eye like the one that was on American money and some keys around it. The text around the symbol read: CRYPTOGRAPHY — IN MATH WE TRUST.
Huh. Weird. Gen would have bet that The Earl of Givesnofucks would have slept in a Jack Daniels or Red Bull tee shirt.
When they got to her bedroom, Arthur wheeled her inside and shut her in, closing the door firmly behind her.
Gen was just about to collapse in a weepy bundle of tears on the thick carpeting under her feet when a solid thunk vibrated the wall behind the door.
She peeked outside.
Arthur was walking away, down the hall, shaking his hand like he was trying to flick water droplets off of his fingers.
He growled, “Go inside. I don’t have the fortitude to send you away again.”
TATTOOS
The next morning was a Saturday.
When Gen visited her mother, she read a couple of chapters in the mystery novel they were working on—it looked like the main guy was a spy for the enemy!—but she sure as heck did not say a word about throwing herself at the hot earl and getting turned down.
If her mother had been able to speak, she would have said that Gen shouldn’t have done it, that a man like Arthur was beyond her hopes.
Instead, her mother’s frail body lay in the bed, covered by sheets and that double-wedding ring quilt. Blue circles looped over the snowy cotton.
Her mother, always slim, looked even thinner lately, but that was to be expected due to muscle atrophy, the nurses had told her. She was being fed sufficient calories through the tube up her nose.
Finally, Gen couldn’t take it any more for that day and went back to Arthur’s apartment.
She came inside the apartment to find Arthur standing in the kitchen, shirtless and sweaty. He was gulping a glass of water and wiping the back of his bare neck with a towel.
Running shorts clung to his muscular thighs.
It was the first time Gen had seen her client nearly naked.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Sweat trickled down the crevices between the rounds of his shoulder muscles and pecs and channeled down the deep crevice between the bricks of his abdominal muscles. His rough breathing expanded and contracted his torso, and those muscles glided over his ribs as he panted. Thick ropes and swells of muscle wrapped his whole body, and Gen couldn’t stop staring at him. His smooth skin was pale golden all over, from his broad shoulders to his trim waist to the strong, lean muscles of his thighs.
Damn. He did not skip leg day at the gym.
Tattoos wound around his body.
One bright tattoo was etched into his skin on his forearm that held the glass of water to his mouth. On the thick cords of his right forearm, three shields were inked, surrounding some kind of triangular Celtic knot thing. The small tattoo was maybe three inches across on his pale bronze skin. A blue shield with three gold crowns pointed down at his wrist. The other two were a red and white diamond-patterned shield and an orange shield with a white cartoon lion on it.
His muscular back was decorated with a complex pattern of watercolor red and blue curving stripes. Tendrils of scarlet and azure ink crawled over his shoulders, twisted down his strong arms and his thighs below the hem of his shorts, and criss-crossed his broad body. Lots of his pale gold skin showed between the flowing color, but he looked like he had been draped and wrappe
d in red and blue ribbons.
Dang.
The matronly housekeeper standing next to him was holding a pitcher of ice water and averting her eyes.
Arthur noticed Gen and smiled at her. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Gen replied.
They both said, “Look, about last night—”
And stopped. And stared at each other.
The housekeepers stampeded out of the kitchen.
Arthur said, “After you.”
“Nope. You, first,” Gen said.
Arthur said, “Please, I insist.”
“I’m fine. You talk. Go ahead.” She didn’t want to be the one who set the tone for the conversation.
Arthur nodded. “It’s Saturday. Let’s go up to Spencer House for the weekend, if you want. We could come home tomorrow after breakfast.”
“Okay.” That was not what she thought he would say, and it sounded like they would be home in time for her Sunday afternoon visit to her mom. “I’d like to see Spencer House.”
Arthur smiled at her, a slow smile. “I’m glad. If you have jeans and trainers with you, that might be a good idea.”
For a manor house? “Okay.”
While she threw a few things in an overnight bag, Gen dug under the long skirts in her closet to find her jeans and tennis shoes.
They packed and were in the car in under an hour. Arthur drove the Rolls Royce.
Ruckus sat in the back seat and, after some bouncing back and forth to look out the windows and hang over the back of the seat to pant warm dog breath on Gen’s cheek, he settled down to sleep before they had driven out of London proper. He smelled clean-doggie damp like he had just had a bath.
Arthur said, “I’ll probably switch this car out for something smaller while we’re there.”
Gen asked, “Where’s Pippa?”
“I gave her the weekend off since we’re going to the country house.”
“That’s nice.”
“It feels good to drive. It’s a problem to drive myself around in the city. Parking, you know.”
“Plus, the last time you drove, you got loose and put the car into the wall,” Gen mumbled.
Arthur laughed. “No one’s chasing us this time. Or, they were, but I lost them already.”
Stiff Drink: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #1 Page 28