Her heart ratcheted up a notch. Breakfast? She wouldn’t be here for breakfast. That’s not how this worked; nor what it was.
She hid her doubts behind a smile. “Can it be called dinner at this hour?”
“Supper?” He shrugged. “Sustenance?”
“Refuelling?” She agreed.
“Definitely.” And he kissed her, hard, passionately, and in a way that lit new fires in her body; fires that would demand his attention. Possibly before food arrived.
“I don’t care what we eat,” she moaned into his mouth.
He pushed her back to the pillows, his kiss a challenge she was ready to meet. “Nor do I.” He took the phone and broke their kiss for a second, pressing buttons before tossing it on the bed and bringing himself over her. The weight of his body was its own aphrodisiac.
It was a kiss.
A long, sensual kiss that filled her up with strange new feelings.
Just a kiss. His hands on her hair, his body on top of hers, and his mouth teasing and tormenting her to the brink of insanity.
When he flipped onto his back, she was out of breath with stars in her eyes and a heart that was racing harder than ever before. For a one-night stand, this was an awakening she suspected she’d never forget.
*
Ivy Hennessey looked as though she’d been thoroughly and repeatedly ravaged. She stared at herself in the mirror, hardly recognising the woman she’d become. Swollen lips, smudged eye make-up, tousled hair that only a leave-in conditioner would be able to tame, shadows under her eyes that spoke of a sleepless night. The kind of sleepless night she’d never had before.
A good one.
A sexy one.
She tilted her head so she could look into the master bedroom at the still-sleeping body of Rafe Santoro and something like pain rolled through her.
She had to leave.
Before he woke up.
Wasn’t that the point of nights like this? None of the messy emotional stuff in the morning? No awkward waiting for her to leave so he could get on with his day?
Ivy had no real point of reference, but it felt like what she should do, even when it was the exact opposite of what she wanted to do.
She lathered her hands with soap and splashed water over her face until her make up was all washed off. It was a man’s bathroom. There were no other cosmetics or products that she could rub into her face to improve her appearance, but it wasn’t yet six o’clock, and her plan was to get straight into a cab.
Her dress was crumpled in the mid-section, and she thought about borrowing a business shirt of his to knot over the front, but knowing Rafe Santoro as she somehow felt she did, his shirts would probably have cost a week’s salary and she didn’t really want to take something she was obliged to return.
She tiptoed out of the bathroom, allowing herself one moment of weakness to stare at his beautiful sleeping body, exposed from the waist up where the sheet was draped carelessly across his mid-section.
In repose he was stunning; strong and relaxed. A sleeping giant.
She resisted the urge to kiss him, even as it overwhelmed every fibre of her being.
It was what it was. A single night. An adventure. An exorcism.
And now it was over.
*
Rafe’s smile was forced.
Amari was someone he’d known for a long time. Slept with whenever they both happened to be single and available. She was stunning, sexy, intelligent.
Yet he was bored.
He kicked his long legs out in front of him, nodding as Amari continued to tell the story about … he wasn’t sure what.
It was only that it was unusual; no one had ever walked out on him before. Usually he was the one making coffee and then excuses, sending his lover du nuit packing before they could get the impression he was offering flowers and sonatas.
But Ivy hadn’t been there when he’d woken. Her pillow had been cold, and his apartment showed no signs of her ever having been there. She’d disappeared, without a trace, and it was only as he walked from room to room, confused by her absence, that he realised he knew nothing about her. Nothing that would allow him to call her and say, “What the hell?”
He’d wanted her again, too. He’d needed her.
That’s why his mind had kept wandering back to that night.
That, and he was back in London. In his apartment. The apartment he’d made love to Ivy in, again and again, pleasuring her body and watching her fall apart as though the very idea of sexual satisfaction was a wholly new concept.
He shifted in his chair as his arousal stoked to life. Three weeks of remembering the way her body had felt, smelled, tasted, and he was sick of the raging hard-on that never ended.
He needed to get rid of Amari. He wasn’t interested in her, or anyone else. Not now that he’d tasted the perfection of Ivy Hennessey.
Eventually, he’d forget her; he had to. But for now? He was happy to remember, to relive that night again and again, remembering her touch, her sounds, her taste –
She had been perfection, and for a brief few hours, she had been his.
*
“We’re out of teabags, Lizzie!” Ivy shouted, pushing down the annoyance that her cousin was perhaps the worst house-guest known to man. Coming and going at strange hours, buying groceries that, while generous, were utterly bizarre. Truffle oil, gravadlax, chocolate scented coffee pods.
“Sorry! I’ll grab some today, okay?” Lisette called back, sauntering out of the bathroom in Ivy’s robe, her hair wrapped in a hand towel.
And Ivy’s annoyance disappeared.
Lisette was the closest thing she had to a sister, and having her around for the extra few weeks – while a little unexpected – had been just the distraction she needed. Besides, she’d be going soon, and Ivy would miss her like crazy, so she’d just have to put up with the strange grocery habits.
Steve was still in her head. She thought of him often. But less and less.
Ivy told herself that had nothing to do with Rafe.
Even when her dreams seemed to revolve around the unbelievably hot Spaniard, she knew it was just because he’d been her most recent sexual experience. Even that wasn’t fair. Rafe had been… everything. Perfection.
And there had been something so deliciously elicit about their affair. A single night out of time – a night she hadn’t planned for that had been all the more thrilling for its unexpectedness.
Steve would have had kittens.
“Crap! I’m so late!” Ivy stared helplessly at the boiling water, wishing she had one of Nanny Anderson’s dried pre-loved tea bags dangling about somewhere so she could at least throw back a few sips of her favourite morning drink, but it wasn’t to be.
It should have been a sign – perhaps it was, in hindsight. She got to the tube station as her train pulled away and then it was an interminable wait for the next, meaning the platform was squished full of commuters and the train was a hot mess of sweat and stench when she managed to fold herself into it. She rode with her face in some man’s armpit, and no matter how she tried to twist and evade it, she couldn’t reposition herself. It was one of those trips that was completely flawed and she thought longingly of the train behind which was probably much emptier. Why hadn’t she waited?
Because of this damned meeting! All management staff had been told the day before that they needed to attend, and her boss Margerite had given Ivy the distinct impression that failing to be there on time and make a good impression would lead to certain death, or worse. “Shoot, shoot, shoot,” she whispered into the armpit, as the tube stopped deep in a tunnel and everyone collectively heaved a groan.
When it finally pulled into Embankment, Ivy scampered out and climbed out of the tube station as a shaken bottle of soda with the lid popped off. It would be quicker to jump onto another tube but she had a public transport-induced form of PTSD and couldn’t face the idea. It was only a marginally longer walk and, though Margerite’s threat had been explicit, Ivy f
ound it hard to care.
She walked quickly and, as she turned the corner into the street on which her office building stood, she bumped into another woman with a similarly harried and hurried bearing. Unfortunately, she’d armed herself with a coffee. A coffee that Ivy was now wearing down the front of her vintage Dior dress.
“Shoot,” she snapped, but at the other woman’s look of abject apology, she forced a smile to her face. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”
Mentally, she tried to recall what she had in her desk drawer at work. She generally kept a couple of spare outfits for the rare days she remembered her gym membership and went to a spin class. A cardigan would suffice.
Her security card wasn’t working when she reached GBRTV and now she felt like she could almost cry. What a flipping day, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock.
“Problem, Ivy?”
Reg, the ancient security guard strolled over at a pace a snail would have found meandering, his broad smile making his chin whiskers wobble.
“You could say that. My card’s broken.” It’s not his fault, it’s not his fault, she told herself, fidgeting her fingers as he took the piece of crappy technology and scanned it on his computer.
“You’ll be needing a new one then,” he nodded, pulling drawers out and looking through them with a confused yet intent air. “You’ve got coffee on your front,” he added helpfully. As though she had somehow been doused in liquid and not realised. Or perhaps dressed in a dirty outfit.
“Thanks,” she nodded crisply, watching with mounting frustration as his rifling continued with the enthusiasm of a vegetarian at a steak-house. “Any chance you can just buzz me up and I’ll grab it at lunch? I’m really late for a meeting,” she explained, suppressing her impatience with real effort now.
“I wouldn’t usually,” he said, and Ivy held her breath. “But for you…” He pressed a button and the metallic barrier swept open, allowing Ivy into the building.
“You’re a star,” she waved, hurrying to the bank of lifts. With the morning Ivy was having, she expected the lifts to conspire to keep her waiting, but one pinged open as she arrived and, for a moment, she wondered if perhaps her luck was changing.
“You’re late,” Ronda chimed as she emerged on the twenty-seventh floor. “And a mess.”
“I know. Bloody tube. And yes, I know.” She grimaced. “Do you think I’ve got time to grab a change of clothes.”
“Sure. Margerite loves being interrupted.” Ronda rolled her eyes. “Spilled coffee is definitely better than blood. Get in there.”
Every curse Ivy knew fired through her head as she walked quickly through the studio offices. Cubicles were filling up, including the one she’d occupied when she’d first started working at the company. Her office was on the mezzanine overlooking the rabbit warren of computers. She flicked a gaze to it, thinking longingly of whatever clothing she could have put on that might have presented a slightly more professional air, then deciding her lateness would scupper it anyway.
The meeting had started. She could see, through the frosted glass doors, Margerite’s face as she spoke. The woman was never more at home than when addressing a crowd. Whether two or two hundred, she was a natural pontificator, always best-pleased when extolling her knowledge to a captive audience.
Ivy pushed the door inwards, mouthing, ‘sorry!’ towards Margerite as she stepped into the room.
“Ah! Good of you to join us, Ivy.”
Ivy winced. “The tube was a nightmare this morning,” she mumbled, not daring to look at her colleagues. She could feel her face flushing with heat.
“Yes, well.” Margerite’s words rang with stern disapproval. “You’ve missed the announcement so let me get you up to speed. As of last night, the network was sold. We have a new chairman. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
It was like a lightning bolt had slashed right through her. Because she just knew!
Before Margerite even said his name, a strange and unmistakable presentiment flooded her body. She turned to look at him and it was as if she might faint.
Because it was Rafe Santoro staring right back at her.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE SURPRISE WAS MUTUAL.
Any idea that Ivy might have known who he was and why he’d been flying back and forth to London for the past six months flew from his mind when all the colour drained from her face.
She hadn’t expected to see him again.
No, she hadn’t wanted to see him again.
It was as abundantly clear as it had been the morning she’d crept out of his apartment, without leaving a card or number.
“Ivy’s just been promoted to director of online content. She’s really got her finger on the pulse of all that stuff.”
Something in the way Margerite said it brought Ivy back to earth. She did have her finger on the pulse of online content. She was great at what she did; and what she did was one of the most important aspects of modern-day media. Digital was a department that was growing exponentially.
“Great to have you,” he drawled, and Ivy’s pulse fired at the intentional double entendre.
“Sit down, Ivy,” Margerite commanded and Ivy took the only empty seat in the room -opposite Rafe. She tried not to think about the fact that the table top was glass. That her lower half was clearly visible beneath its translucent top. About the fact he’d be able to see the slight wobble in her knees if he cared to look. She made an effort to relax her body, to look focussed, but the meeting was a whirlwind of missed comprehension.
So Rafe was the new owner of GBRTV?
She hadn’t even known it was being sold, but then, that was how these things often happened, wasn’t it, to appease shareholders and avoid panic?
At least now she knew what he did. He bought things. Expensive things.
Like television and radio networks that must have cost billions of pounds. Had he known who she was? Where she worked?
She quickly discounted the idea. Their meeting had been pure chance. This was one of life’s coincidences. Her eyes flicked upwards. He was watching her.
The smile, always so quick to flick across her face, was quivering somewhere in her gut. He didn’t smile either. His expression was a thundercloud. As the meeting dragged onwards, and Margerite talked herself to a point of hoarseness, Ivy became aware of two things.
He was looking almost exclusively at her.
And Margerite was interpreting his expression as one of abject disapproval. Nervousness was making her verbose and Rafe was barely listening.
“In any event, it will be business as usual. For most of you, the fact there’s a new corporate owner shouldn’t have much impact on day to day running.”
The corner of his lip twisted in an acknowledgement of the remark that carried with it a silent refutation.
The coffee had soaked through her dress and her bra and the arctic air-conditioning of the meeting rooms was making her shiver.
“I’d like to know more about your online content,” she heard him murmur and her eyes slid to his with almost a look of panicked apology in them.
“Absolutely,” Margerite was swift in response. “Ivy can answer your questions. Ivy?”
His stare was the same, but different. Eyes that had been filled with heated need were now impossible to read. He wasn’t the only one looking at her. The whole room seemed to be collectively homed in on Ivy, waiting for her to drop some pearl of wisdom about online content and digital reporting.
“What would you like to know?”
“More than we can discuss now,” he said simply. “And I see no point in monopolising the entire management team while I get to grips with the operation.”
“No, of course not, there’s too much work to do as it is.” Margerite in this guise, eager to please and quick to agree, was reminiscent of a grovelling stick insect, all obsequious nodding. “Ivy can make herself available to you privately.”
The words were so perfectly, exactly what Ivy might have liked that
she felt a hint colour spread through her cheeks. “Yeah, of course,” she mumbled. “I can meet you afterwards.”
“Once you’ve changed?” He prompted, his eyes dropping to the mark on the front of her dress.
Pink cheeks became red, but his lips were smiling and his eyes were teasing. He wasn’t trying to embarrass her so much as share a joke. Danger, danger, danger, a little internal red flight flashed. Flirting with him was a very bad idea.
“Great,” she scraped her chair back. “Would you excuse me now?”
Ivy practically ran to her office and slammed the door shut with more force than she’d intended. She rifled through her drawer, pulling out a black pencil skirt and a silk blouse. Her office wall was made of frosted glass. Only about head-height and upwards was transparent. Still, she locked the door and turned her back to it, changing as though wild-horses were upon her.
She discarded the beautiful white dress in a Tesco bag then quickly fastened the buttons of her shirt, trying not to think of undoing Rafe’s. Button by button, like some kind of sensual breadcrumb she had followed down his chest until she’d seen all of his glorious torso.
The knock on the door didn’t surprise her, but it set her pulse hammering and when she pulled it inwards, she held her breath.
He was so beautiful.
She could only stare at him, at first, letting her eyes linger on his face for several seconds before shaking her head to clear the confusion.
“Ivy.” Her name on his lips was sublime. It conjured every memory of how it had sounded when he’d whispered it into her ears, warm and spiced, filled with sunshine. But there was a different kind of passion stirring his features now. An anger she didn’t understand. “May I?” He asked tersely, nodding towards her office.
“Oh!” As if belatedly realising she was standing in the middle of the door frame, she moved backwards, waving a hand vaguely towards her desk. “Please. Have a seat.”
His eyes were mocking as they slid past her, taking in the details of her office. The fiddle-leaf fig she had in one corner, the mess of papers that ran across most surfaces, and the photograph of Steve and her that she still had propped beside her computer.
Bedding his Innocent Mistress: Sometimes the only way to fix the past is to create a whole new future... Page 4