Entrance (Thornhill Trilogy Book 1)

by J. J. Sorel

  After I returned from my little swim, I was so ravished by fantasies that I needed a session with Toy Boy. When Tabitha gave her vibrator that name, we laughed our heads off. From that moment on, I referred to my trusty, battery-operated friend as Toy Boy too.

  I lay there alone in the dark. The image of his hungry hands all over me, and his big hungry penis, sent a delicious ache, making my orgasm more intense than usual. As I panted on my back, an inner voice screamed, you must find a man.

  I plotted to get drunk and hunt down Mr. Sexy Gardener. While I cooked up ways to seduce him, I did wonder why he hadn’t introduced himself or even tried to hit on me. Could he be gay? Now, that would be tragic and grossly unfair, for women at least.

  One thing was for sure: he had stirred something in me.

  Despite raging, out-of-control hormones, I craved more than a one-night stand. Was that too much to ask? One thing I knew well about myself: I was not cut from the same fabric as Tabitha, whose desperate need for a man meant she ended up with jerks.

  ****

  It was the week leading up to the gala ball. Brimming with anticipation I found it hard to sleep. As the event manager, I’d designed the ballroom, booked the entertainment, and arranged the catering. Too busy to indulge in anxiety, I spent most of the time on the phone, ensuring that everything about the event flowed. My contract renewal depended on it.

  Amid this flurry of activity, I needed a gown fitting. And when Greta handed me a voucher for hair styling and make-up for the morning of the ball, butterflies migrated into my belly. I even passed on a batch of hot donuts that Melanie offered for morning tea, which was a first.

  The thought of a lavish gown was too exciting. My only other experience with formal wear had been at the debs’ ball, and that didn’t go down too well. I’d worn a vintage dress owned by my late mother. I could still hear the snickering.

  The only thing I knew about my gown was the color I’d chosen to suit my black hair. I gritted my teeth, hoping I wouldn’t hate it. Now, that would be a come-down after the shrill-filled speculation generated mainly by Tabitha.

  When the gown finally arrived the day before the ball, I whisked a photo off to Tabitha, who purred with approval at the other end. It was silk, no less, and a breathtaking sky-blue color. The layered gown fell languidly to the floor, and although the bodice was fitted at the waist, it had a modest neckline. No cleavage would be revealed, much to Tabitha’s disappointment.

  This friend of mine was on a mission to see me in the arms of a rich man. Despite hissing at her inflated ambition, I loved her for it. After all, Tabitha only wanted happiness for me—and of course, gossip fodder to keep her stimulated.

  It was the morning of the ball. Too excited to eat, I drank my coffee and headed over for a final tour of the ballroom.

  I walked about the grand room to make sure everything was correct. With all the tables and chairs in their rightful positions, the lighting rigged, and the stage dressed with red-velvet drapery, I was satisfied— if not ecstatic with the result.

  I was astonished by the room’s sheer opulence. White, detailed cornices with carved angels’ faces contrasted pale, green-blue damask wallpaper. The gigantic fireplace of opalescent marble, held up by goddesses, was startling.

  Glass doors opened out onto the terrace, making the room seem immense. A swimming pool positioned in front of the sea added to its boundlessness.

  However, nothing staggered me more than the artwork. There were paintings by Alma-Tadema that rendered me speechless. The sublime works all featured nymphs on marble seats with a rich turquoise sea in the background. The neo-classical paintings all carried the same theme: languid women dressed in flowing robes by the sea. My favorite was the Godward showing a woman with long black hair reclining.

  One thing was for certain: Aidan Thornhill loved beauty.

  When asked to design the room, I’d envisioned something French from the late 1890’s. After all, I had a decent budget to work with, and my directive was to create a stylish and unique event.

  Greta entered the room, nodding with approval. “This is fantastic, Clarissa.”

  I sighed silently in relief. “That’s music to my ears. I wanted to recreate a scene from a Parisian café, inspired by the paintings in the room.” I pointed to the image over the fireplace. “They are a remarkable collection. Did Mr. Thornhill select them?”

  “He did. Aidan spent a long time in Europe. Needless to say, he loves antiques.”

  I nodded, in awe of my mysterious boss.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Greta, I love that dress. Is it original sixties?” I asked, touching the soft pink floral gown.

  “Yes, it’s one I’ve held onto. Not that I’m on a budget. But I do like that era.”

  “Me too,” I said, bubbling over. “I can’t get enough of the sixties. I still wear my late mother’s clothes whenever possible.”

  “I’ve noticed,” she said with a wry grin. “It looks wonderful out here, Clarissa. I’m sure Aidan will be pleased with the quartet. It’s an inspired choice.”

  I had to agree. The quartet musicians, as per my request, were dressed in the style of Louis XIV. The men wore satin breeches, white ruffled shirts, and high-heeled buckled shoes that I would’ve walked over hot embers to own. The women, dressed in low-cut bodices, hooped gowns, and an effervescence of curls sculpted up high, looked like they just stepped out of the Palace of Versailles.

  As a backdrop, and looking surreal in the dusk, the sculptures on the grounds were lit up. Strangled by creepers, they appeared animated.

  The damp air— a heady mix of flower, sea and earth—filtered through, adding to the intoxicating allure of the setting. My eyes traveled over to the colored lanterns set up throughout the grounds, and I noticed how, almost like magic, the trees had metamorphosed into a kaleidoscope of color.

  A satisfied breath escaped my lips. My flesh puckered with pride as I feasted on the result of my imagination. Mindful of my professional make-up job, I had to fight to suppress tears.

  Earlier, in my cottage, while twirling and delighting in the floaty silk layers of my dress, I studied myself in the mirror. I saw my late mother. The transformation was so extraordinary that I took a selfie and sent it to Tabitha and my father.

  Tabitha gushed, “Clarissa, you look beautiful.”

  While my father, finding it hard to speak, muttered something about how much I resembled my mother.

  “Do you mind if I film this for our records, Greta?” I asked.

  She nodded slowly. “I can’t see why not.”

  “I thought I could create a collage of images from the night. I could upload it onto the Thornhill website.”

  She knitted her brows, mulling over my suggestion. “Mm, I like that idea.” She added, “I will have to run it by Aidan first.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Will he be joining us this evening?” I asked.

  Greta studied me closely. “He should be down soon.”

  The guests arrived as the plaintive strains of Pachelbel’s Canon caressed the air. Although not French, it was still a fitting choice and so moving that goose-bumps kept prickling my arms.

  As I watched the waiters offer champagne to the guests, I craved a glass but wasn’t sure if I was allowed, so I held back.

  “This is working very well, Clarissa,” said Greta, praising me yet again.

  “Thanks. I’ve loved doing it. And now that it’s in full swing, I’m over the moon,” I said.

  Designer gowns floated by. Flesh was out in abundance—low-cut backs, necklines that plunged almost to the naval, and slits up to the thighs. The style seemed to be the less fabric, the better. Apart from Greta and a handful of older guests, I had the most fabric on my body. Not that it worried me. My main concern had become balancing on my stilt-like shoes. I did not need gaping, out-of-control cleavage.

  “There are so many women,” I said to Greta, who stood by my side as the parade of guests flowed in.

  “They’v
e all come for Aidan,” she said soberly.

  “I see. It must be gratifying to have so many striking women around, I suppose.”

  “No. For Aidan, it’s a nuisance. But they pay. This event is to raise money, not to socialize.”

  “He doesn’t enjoy that part?” I asked.

  “No. He’s a private man.”

  The garden had filled quickly with people. Although most were young, beautiful women, a few attractive young men had come along as well. But it was the older, more distinguished guests who really stood out.

  As I studied them, Greta said, “They’re regulars. Old money. They bring class to these events.”

  A parting of bodies occurred as the crowd’s focus moved to the portico. And to the uplifting strains of Boccherini’s Minuet, my boss made his entrance.

  My heart raced with anticipation. Finally, I would see this mysterious man. I reminded myself that I had nothing to worry about and that everything was going smoothly. But nothing, except champagne, would quell my nerves. I must have had longing etched into my eyes for the waiter came straight over to me with a glistening tray of glasses.

  I looked over at Greta, who had just taken one. There was no mention of not being allowed to drink champagne in my contract, so I took one.

  I’d never had champagne of that caliber before—crisp and cool on the tongue. As it slid down my parched throat, I reminded myself to take little feminine sips, especially since I had a propensity to gulp when nervous.

  Although he was far away, I recognized Aidan Thornhill from the celebrity pictures that Tabitha had shown me. Dressed in a black tuxedo, bow tie, and white shirt, even from far back he cut a strikingly handsome figure. His light-brown hair, sitting on his collar, was pomaded stylishly. He carried himself with a graceful and easy stride.

  As I observed my boss gliding along, greeting the guests, there was something familiar about him. I was thinking about that when a deep voice from behind, so close I felt his breath on my neck, uttered, “Miss Moone.”

  I turned and discovered Bryce Beaumont sporting a greasy grin.

  Dressed in a tuxedo, he scrubbed up well. But those undressing eyes pausing on my breasts made me squirm.

  “You look stunning, just like a goddess,” he said loudly. Such was his boom that guests looked in my direction.

  “Thanks,” I said, shrinking from the sudden attention. He stood closer than I cared for. All the while, I plotted an escape, and forgetting to sip, I quaffed my champagne.

  Greta came to my rescue. “Bryce, how are you this evening?”

  “Well, thanks. This looks sensational.”

  “Yes, Clarissa has done well,” said Greta stretching out her arm. “Come and sample the canapés.”

  As he followed her, he turned and flashed me a creepy smile. Ick!

  Mingling amongst strangers was not my thing, so I sat on a bench under a tree. The waiter, nevertheless, noticed me. And making the journey with tray in hand, he offered me another glass of champagne. I gratefully accepted.

  Bryce was joking with a trio of blondes. What a relief he’d lost interest in me. I imagined most of the willowy, attractive women there were eligible, if not husband seeking. And putting aside Bryce’s unpleasant attributes, I imagined he could be seen as a potential partner.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Having finished my second glass of champagne, and pleasantly relaxed as a result, I decided to check that everything was going according to plan in the ballroom.

  Reluctant to walk through the crowd, I opted for the kitchen entrance instead. This proved a very bad idea. As I traversed the grass, my spiked heels kept sinking in the muddy ground. Just my luck, it had rained overnight.

  I sloshed along, muttering expletives. I even contemplated removing the shoes, but then my nylons would have muddied. I hurried along assuming illogically that it would minimize the damage. From graceful princess to clumsy Clarissa in one stroke—my pathetic attempt at walking would’ve had a spectator squealing with laughter. I reminded myself that I was alone and surrendered into the sodden ground, my feet becoming heavier with each step.

  I expelled a long, slow breath of relief when I finally hit the path. Bending down to survey the damage, an exasperated “Fuck!” issued from my lips like a missile through the air. My obscenely expensive nude heels were covered in mud.

  As I searched hastily for a tissue in my purse, a familiar deep voice resonated over my shoulder. “Do you need a hand?”

  I looked up, expecting it to be someone else. Such was my bewilderment I lost my balance and fell onto my bottom. My gown ended up around my thighs showing off my stocking clasps.

  What a sight I must have made. Did he think I was drunk? Oh God, it got worse with every second. I was sure I was the color of beetroot because my face was on fire.

  It all happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to collect my wit. And before I’d even attempted to stand, I was floating in the air like a ballerina. Having lifted me effortlessly, he placed me upright on earth.

  All the while, his deep-blue eyes remained glued to my face. Hypnotized, I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Time stretched. Everything was going in slow motion—just like in a romance movie, but without the build-up music and heavy breathing.

  As my body rested in his strong arms, a heady mix of cologne, body wash, and masculinity traveled up my nostrils and straight to my nipples, which, with a mind of their own, pierced the silk fabric. Much later, when I was reliving that moment over and over again, I wondered whether his hand may have accidentally brushed them.

  His mesmerizing blue eyes remained focused on my eyes. I had to look away in order to gather my senses, but I still felt his searing gaze burning into me—like a naked flame, but instead of bright specks, his blue eyes became the after-burn.

  Not helped by my skyscraper heels, my legs wobbled, as he continued to hold me up. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to these heels. I’m more of a sensible-shoes-girl.” My attempt at a chuckle was thin-if not-pathetic.

  Aidan Thornhill’s well-sculptured lips twitched into a faint smile. “I don’t know how you manage to walk in them. It strikes me as a difficult unnatural feat.”

  Should I giggle? Was that a pun? I checked out his expression, which was suddenly earnest, just like the photos. Or was he one of those dry-delivery guys? My face cracked into an awkward smile nevertheless.

  With equilibrium restored, physically speaking, I pulled away reluctantly from his grasp and smoothed down my gown. I brushed the back of the dress, praying it had not been ruined.

  I needed a bathroom to regain composure and fix my outfit. But Aidan was so arresting I couldn’t move. I feared falling, this time from swooning, not from my shoes.

  How could a girl not swoon? That tuxedo showed off his broad-shouldered, manly physique, in one mouth-watering package.

  “How’s that scratch?” His deep voice vibrated through my ribcage and traveled down to that tender spot. Those ridiculously deep-blue eyes had stolen my senses.

  “Scratch?” My brows drew together in one sharp motion. Freaking Hell. I tapped my forehead. Aidan Thornhill was the sexy gardener I’d been fantasizing over these past nights.

  “Oh… you were with Rocket. I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize you without the cap and glasses,” I trilled.

  “There’s no need to apologize. I should’ve introduced myself.” Aidan’s voice was so seductive he could have read the phone directory, and I’d still salivate.

  “I love what you’ve done here tonight. Greta has spoken highly of you. Now I can see why.” One side of his mouth curled slightly. Smiling didn’t come naturally to him. I sensed shyness.

  “That’s so kind of you. Everybody’s been generous. The cottage is heaven. The gardens, the beach—I feel blessed,” I said, hoping that I wasn’t blabbering. “I’m sorry. I must be holding you up from your guests. I was heading for the ballroom to check on things.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then. I look forward to hearing th
e band in the ball-room. I’m fond of jazz. Good choice. And the quartet are superb, they look and sound fabulous in the garden,” said Aidan.

  His lingering gaze was spellbinding. My core tightened. I was almost hyperventilating from lack of air.

  I watched him move off. There was that unmistakable relaxed, manly stride that I’d already lost my head over. Phew. I leaned against a wall for a moment. Taking a deep breath, I gave my heart a chance to steady.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Much to my relief, the dress was unstained. Despite a flushed face, my make-up was still where it should’ve been too. Electricity from Aidan still buzzed through me as I patted my bun gently. There was so much hairspray that my normally untamable mane was going nowhere.

  When I entered the ballroom, the band was tuning up, and the staff was racing about putting finishing touches to the tables. Drifting through the air was an appetite-inducing aroma coming from the kitchen, which reminded me that I hadn’t eaten all day.

  Having discovered the virtues of expensive champagne, I helped myself to another glass and headed for the kitchen where I found Melanie sharing a laugh with a waiter.

  She turned, and her face brightened. “You look so amazing in that blue dress,” she gushed, touching the fabric of my gown.

  “Thanks, Melanie. That’s kind of you to say. Can I help with anything?”

  “No, babes, just enjoy yourself. And keep looking beautiful. I take it you’ve met Aidan?” she asked, her gray eyes flickering with curiosity.

  Why was she giving me that look? Was I giving something away? Were my flushed cheeks that obvious, or was desire oozing out of me?

  “I have,” I said, keeping it brief, a technique I’d adopted when talking to Melanie. It was easy to stoke the fire with her. A slight hint and she would be ablaze with all kinds of speculation, just like Tabitha.