One Night: Promised Part 7

I definitely see a wave of disappointment travel across her age-worn face. 'Oh, well . . .' She turns, losing interest in the man outside immediately. 'I won't bother with supper then.'

'Okay.' I take the stairs two at a time and burst into the bathroom, cranking the shower on and stripping down at lightning speed. Then I dive in before it's warmed up. 'Oh s.h.i.+t!' I pin myself to the side, goose pimples invading me, my body s.h.i.+vering uncontrollably. 's.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t s.h.i.+t! Warm up!' My hand hovers under the spray, and I'm frantically egging the hot water on. 'Come on, come on.'

After far too long, it's just warm enough to bear, and I step under, making super-fast work of was.h.i.+ng my hair, soaping everywhere and shaving . . . everywhere. By the time I've sprinted across the landing in my towel and made it into the safety of my room, I'm out of breath. Under normal circ.u.mstances, it usually takes me ten minutes flat to throw some clothes on, give my face a quick brush over with some powder, and rough dry my hair. But now I care; now I want to look nice. And I haven't got b.l.o.o.d.y time to do it.

'Underwear,' I prompt myself, hurrying over to my drawers and yanking the top one open, instantly grimacing at the piles of cotton knickers and bras. I must have something anything other than cotton, please!

After five minutes of a.s.sessing each and every piece of underwear I own, I find that I am, in fact, a cotton girl, with no lace, satin, or leather in sight. I knew that, but maybe I thought a s.e.xy pair of something might magic their way into my drawer to save me from underwear humiliation. I was wrong, but with little else to do, I pull on my white cotton knickers and matching boring bra before blasting my hair, brus.h.i.+ng some powder across my face and pinching my cheeks.

And now I'm staring at my satchel and wondering what I need to pack. I have no lingerie or stilettos, or anything remotely s.e.xy. What was I thinking? What was he thinking? I drop my backside on the edge of the bed and my head in my hands, my heavy hair falling forward and forming a waterfall to my knees. I should stay here and hope he gets fed up with waiting and leaves, because all of a sudden, this doesn't seem like such a good idea. In fact, it's the dumbest idea I've ever had, and happy with that conclusion I crawl under the covers of my bed and hide my face in a pillow.

He's rich, he's stunning, he's refined, if a bit stand-offish, and he wants me for twenty-four hours? He needs his head tested. These thoughts plague my mind as I hide from the world, until I reach a perfectly solid conclusion; he must have arm candy throwing themselves at his feet daily h.e.l.l, I've seen one already and they must all be dripping in diamonds, designer handbags and shoes that cost more than my monthly wage, so maybe he wants to try something a little different, something like me an average waitress, who b.u.g.g.e.rs up coffee and throws trays of expensive champagne everywhere. I push my face further into the pillow and groan. 'Stupid, stupid, stupid woman.'

'No you're not.'

I bolt upright and see him sitting in the armchair in the corner of my room, legs crossed at the ankles, his elbow resting on the arm, his chin in his palm. 'What the h.e.l.l?' I jump up and run to my bedroom door, swinging it open to check for old ears pushed up against the wood. Nothing, but I don't feel any better. Nan must have let him in. 'How did you get up here?' I slam the door and flinch when it reverberates through the house.

He doesn't. He's perfectly collected, not in the least bit affected by my fl.u.s.tered state. 'Your grandmother should take security a little more seriously.' He rubs his index finger slowly across his stubbled chin, his eyes taking a leisurely jaunt down my body.

It's only now I realise that I'm standing in my underwear, and my arms instinctively cross over my chest, attempting in vain to conceal my modesty from his roving eye. I'm horrified, even more so when his lips tip at the edge and his eyes sparkle as they land on mine.

'You'd better lose your bashfulness, Livy.' He stands, casually strolling over to me, sliding his hands in his grey trouser pockets. His chest meets mine, and he looks down at me, not touching with his hands, but touching with absolutely everything else. 'Then again, I quite like your shyness.'

I'm shaking physically shaking, and no amount of pep talking is halting it. I want to appear confident, nonchalant and carefree, but I don't know where to start. Decent underwear might be a good place.

He bends down, getting his face in the line of my dropped sight, and pulls my falling hair from my shoulders, holding it from my face. Lifting my gaze, only very slightly, I quickly find his. 'My twenty-four hours don't start until I get you in my bed.'

I feel my brow completely furrow. 'You're really going to time it?' I ask, wondering if he'll produce a stopwatch.

'Well.' One of his hands drops my hair, and he looks down at his expensive watch. 'It's six-thirty now. By the time I get you uptown in rush hour, it'll be approximately seven-thirty. I have a charity ball tomorrow evening around seven-thirty, so I've timed this just perfectly.'

Yes, he has timed it perfectly. So when the clock strikes seven-thirty, do I get tossed out on my a.r.s.e? Do I turn into a pumpkin? I feel jilted already and we haven't even started, so what am I going to feel like come seven-thirty tomorrow evening? Like s.h.i.+t, that's what rejected, unworthy, depressed and abandoned. I open my mouth to call a stop on the whole diabolical arrangement, but then I hear the sound of old footsteps clumping up the stairs.

'Oh s.h.i.+t, my nan's coming!' My palms meet his suit-covered chest and push into him, guiding him back towards a built-in cupboard. I'm panicking, but I'm still appreciating the solidness beneath my flat palms. It makes my steps falter and my heart jump wildly. I glance up at him.

'Feel good?' he asks, sliding his palms around my back and circling my waist. I hold my breath, then I hear the creaking again. It snaps me right out of my l.u.s.tful state.

'You need to hide.'

He snorts his disgust and moves his grip to my wrists, detaching me from his chest. 'I'm not hiding anywhere.'

'Miller, please, she'll have heart failure if she catches you in here.' I feel beyond stupid for making him do this, but I can't let my grandmother barge into my room and see him. I know she'll go into seizure, and I know it'll be in shock, but it won't be shock of the ordinary kind. No, Nan will pa.s.s out for a few seconds, then she'll throw a b.l.o.o.d.y party. I release a frustrated, suppressed yell, forgetting all embarra.s.sment with regards to my lack of attire, and give him pleading eyes. 'She'll get excited,' I explain. 'She prays to the Lord Almighty every day for my self-discovery.' I'm running out of time. I can hear floorboards creaking as she gets closer to the door of my room. 'Please.' My naked shoulders sag, defeated. I can barely do this to myself, let alone to my elderly grandmother. It would be cruel to build her hopes up with a complete non-starter. 'I won't ask for anything else, just please don't let her see you.'

His lips form a straight line and his head drops forward a little, the wayward lock of dark hair falling onto his brow, and without a word, he releases me and moves across my room, but he doesn't step into the cupboard; he goes behind my floor-length curtains. I can't see him, so I don't argue.

'Olivia Taylor!'

I swing around and find Nan in the doorway, her eyes roaming all over my room, like she knows I'm hiding something. 'What's up?' I ask, silently scolding myself for my poor choice of words. What's up? I would never say that, and her suspicious face notes this, too.

Her eyes narrow, making me feel even more conspicuous. 'That man-'

'What man?' I need to shut up and let her spit it out, not intercept her and make her even more suspicious.

'That man in the car outside,' she continues, resting her hand on the doork.n.o.b. 'Your boss.'

I must visibly relax because she runs her navy eyes over my semi-naked form, knowing plastered all over her face. She still thinks he's out there, which is just perfect. 'What about him?' I pull my skinny jeans from my drawer and hop in, s.h.i.+mmying them up my legs and fastening the fly before s.n.a.t.c.hing a white over-sized T-s.h.i.+rt from the back of my dressing table chair.

'He's gone.'

I freeze with my T-s.h.i.+rt halfway over my head, one arm fed through a sleeve and my hair caught in the neck. 'Where?' I ask, no other words springing to mind.

'I don't know, but one second he's there, and I know because I could see the top of his head through the slightly open window, then I turn to tell George that he has one of those fancy Mercedes things, and when I look back . . . poof, he's gone. But that sw.a.n.ky car is still there' her foot starts tapping 'and parked illegally, I might add.'

I'm immobilised by guilt. She's like Miss b.l.o.o.d.y Marple. 'He's probably nipped to the shop,' I say, untangling myself from my T-s.h.i.+rt and pulling it down my body. I make quick work of shoving my feet in my hot-pink Converse. Christ, I've got to get him out yet, and with Ironside on the case, it's looking like a job and a half.

'The shop?' She laughs. 'The nearest is a mile away. He'd drive.'

I fight to prevent an irritated screech escaping. 'What does it matter where he's gone?' I ask, then dive right in with the building of my greatest lie. 'Oh, and I'm staying at Sylvie's tonight. She's a work friend.'

My shoulders rise in antic.i.p.ation for her gasp of shock, but it doesn't come, and that has me turning to see if she's still in my room. She is, and she's grinning. 'Really?' she asks, her eyes twinkling in delight as she runs them down my static form. 'You're not dressed for work.'

'I'll change when I get there.' My voice is high and squeaky as I busy myself, collecting toiletries and packing what I'll need for twenty-four hours with Miller Hart, which isn't a lot, I expect. 'The event I'm working at tonight doesn't finish until midnight, and Sylvie lives close by so I may as well just crash there.' I'm a fool and completely wasting my breath. It's only now, when I'm zipping up my bag and chucking it onto my shoulder, that I remember he's in my room. What must he be thinking? I won't blame him if he walks out this very instant. This performance by my nan has nothing to do with her disapproving of a man in my life. She just doesn't like the fact that she doesn't know about it, that's all. And she isn't going to know, not officially, anyway. The silence spreading between us is a mutual understanding of that. Gregory has told her I'm taken by someone, and she can't bear that I've not confided in her. It would be hard enough spilling if I were to get involved with a regular guy, under regular circ.u.mstances, but Miller? And with our twenty-four hour agreement? No, it goes against everything I know, and I'm ashamed of myself because of it. While Nan has been begging me to sow my wild oats, I don't think she quite meant as wild as my mother.

She gazes at me, her old navy eyes thoughtful. 'I'm glad,' she says softly. 'You can't hide from your mother's history for ever.'

I shrink a little, but not wanting to extend this line of conversation, especially with Miller hiding behind the curtains, I just nod my head at her, my silent way of saying yes. She nods in return and slowly backs out of my room, all cool and casual, but I know she'll be rus.h.i.+ng back to the lounge window to see if the man has returned to his sw.a.n.ky car. My bedroom door shuts and Miller appears from behind the curtain. I've never been so embarra.s.sed, and the interested look on his face only enhances it, even if it's nice to see him display a facial expression other than the completely serious one that I've become used to.

'Your grandmother is a busybody, yes?' He's really amused by her interrogation performance, yet I can also see curiosity lingering on that perfect face.

Straightening myself out, just for something to do other than feed his amus.e.m.e.nt and his curiosity, I shrug, feeling smaller than ever. 'She's entertaining,' I flip, my eyes darting across the floor. I want the ground to swallow me whole right now.

He's pushed up against me in a second. 'I felt like a teenager.'

'Did you hide behind a lot of curtains back then?' I step away to gain some breathing s.p.a.ce, but my attempted escape is in complete vain.

He moves forward. 'Are you ready, Olivia Taylor?'

I get the feeling he doesn't just mean to leave. Am I ready? And for what? 'Yes,' I say, decidedly staunch, not quite knowing where the word spoken with such confidence comes from. I stare at him, unwilling to be the first to look away. I don't know where I'm going or what I'll experience while I'm there, but I know that I want to go . . . with him.

His lovely lips give an almost undetectable smile, telling me he knows I'm feigning confidence, but I keep my eyes on his, unwavering. He leans down, getting us nose to nose, then blinks slowly, parts his lips slowly, drops his eyes to my mouth slowly, and then he increases my heart rate further by singeing my bare arm with his delicate touch. Nothing extraordinary, but the feeling is beyond extraordinary, like nothing I've felt before . . . until I met him.

He dips his head, coming so close I can't help closing my eyes. I'm dizzy and exhilarated all at once, feeling his tongue trace my bottom lip.

'If I start, I won't stop,' he murmurs, pulling away. 'I need to get you in my bed.' He grasps my nape and twists his hand slightly, forcing me to turn away from him and walk forward.

'My nan.' I barely splutter the words out in my wanton state. 'She can't see you.' I'm led across the landing and down the stairs me cautious, him hasty.

'I'll wait in the car.' He releases me from his grasp and strides to the front door, opening it and shutting it with no regard for my peeking grandmother.

'Nan!' I shout, panicked, knowing she'll have her face squished against the gla.s.s of the window looking for him. 'Nan!' I need to get her away before Miller appears from the recess of the front door. 'Nan!'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, girl!' She appears in the doorway with George in tow, looking at my frozen form with worried eyes. 'What's the matter?'

With a blank mind and blank face, I step forward and kiss her cheek. 'Nothing. See you tomorrow.' I don't hang around. I leave my nan frowning and George muttering something about a strange woman, and run down the pathway to the s.h.i.+ny black Mercedes, diving in and sinking into my seat. 'Go,' I press impatiently.

But he doesn't. The car remains idle at the kerb, and he remains idle in his seat, showing no sign of rus.h.i.+ng away from my house as I've demanded. His tall, suited frame is relaxed, one hand draped casually on the wheel as he looks at me, completely serious, his steely blues giving nothing away. What's he thinking? I break the eye connection, but only because I want to confirm what I already know. I look up to the front window of my house and see the curtains twitching. I sag further in my seat.

'What's the matter, Livy?' Miller asks, reaching over to rest his hand on my thigh. 'Tell me.'

My eyes are on his big, manly hand, my flesh burning beneath it. 'You shouldn't have come in,' I say quietly. 'You may have found it amusing, but you've just made this even harder.'

'Livy, it's polite to look at someone when you're speaking to them.' He clasps my chin and pulls, making me face him. 'I apologise.'

'It's done now.'

'Nothing about the next twenty-four hours is going to be difficult, Livy.' His hand slides across my cheek tenderly, pus.h.i.+ng me to nuzzle into it. 'I know being with you will be the easiest thing that I've ever done.'

It might very well be easy, but I can't see the aftermath being easy. No, I foresee a mountain of hurt on my part and easiness on his. I'm not myself around him. The sensible woman I've moulded myself into has gone from one extreme to the other. Nan's at that window, Miller's hand is stroking my cheek sweetly, and I can't even muster up the energy to stop him.

'The windows are tinted,' he whispers, slowly moving forward and resting his soft lips on mine.

That may be so; however, he's not my boss, and my cute nan knows that very well. But I'll deal with the interrogation when I get home tomorrow. I'm suddenly not so concerned. I've been distracted from my sensible self again.

'Are you ready?' He asks the question again, but this time I just nod against him. I'm not ready to be heartbroken at all.

The drive back to Miller's apartment is quiet. The only sound in the air surrounding us is Gary Jules singing about a mad world. I don't know much about Miller, but I've figured out that he must come from good stock. His speech is refined, his clothing of the highest quality, and he lives in Belgravia. He pulls up outside the building and is out of the car and on my side without delay, opening my door and ushering me out.

'Have it cleaned,' he orders, detaching his car key from the key ring and handing it to the green-suited valet.

'Sir.' The valet tips his hat, then climbs into Miller's car, immediately pressing a b.u.t.ton that brings him closer to the wheel.

'Walk.' He takes my bag and settles his hand on the base of my neck again as he guides me through the giant gla.s.s revolving door and into a mirror-invested lobby. Everywhere I look, we're there, me being guided, looking pet.i.te and apprehensive, and him pus.h.i.+ng me onward, looking tall and powerful.

We bypa.s.s the rows of mirrored elevators, heading for the stairwell. 'Are the lifts broken?' I ask as I'm steered through the doors and pushed up the stairs.

'No.'

'Then why-'

'Because I'm not lazy.' He cuts me off, leaving no room for further questioning, and continues to hold my nape as we take the stairs.

He might not be lazy, but he's seriously crazy. Four flights of stairs in and my calf muscles are burning again. I'm struggling to keep up. I battle on for one more flight, and I'm just about to call for a break when he turns and picks me up, obviously aware of my breathlessness. My arms around his neck feel right, as comforting as they did before, as he continues with me draped across his arms like it's the most natural thing in the world. Our faces are close, his smell manly, and he keeps his eyes set firmly forward until we're outside his s.h.i.+ny black front door.

Miller drops me to my feet, hands me my bag and takes hold of my nape, using his free hand to get the door open, but as the view inside his apartment hits me, I suddenly want to run away. I see the art, the wall where he restrained me, and the couch where he sat me. The images are all vivid, and so are my feelings of helplessness. If I cross this threshold, I'll be at Miller Hart's mercy and I don't even think my long-lost sa.s.s will a.s.sist me . . . if I manage to find it.

'I'm not sure I-' I start backing away from the door, uncertainty abruptly plaguing me, sensibility worming its way into my confused brain. But the fiery determination in his clear eyes is telling me that I'm going nowhere and so does the increased grip of his hand on my nape.

'Livy, I'm not going to jump you as soon as I get you inside.' His hand s.h.i.+fts down to my upper arm but he doesn't restrain me now. 'Calm down.'

I'm trying to, but my heart won't let up and neither will the shakes. 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be.' He steps away from me, giving me access to the entrance of his apartment. 'I'd like you to go inside, but only if you want to spend the night with me,' he says slowly, pulling my gaze to his. 'And I want you to turn and leave if you're not sure because I can't do this unless I know you're one hundred per cent with me.' His face is straight but I detect an element of pleading behind the impa.s.sive blue gaze of his eyes.

'I just don't understand why you want me,' I admit, feeling insecure and vulnerable.

I know what I look like; I'm reminded every time someone stares at me or comments on my unique eyes, but I also know that I have very little to offer a man, apart from something pleasant to look at. My mother's beauty was her downfall, and I never want it to be mine. I'm at risk of losing my self-respect, just like she did. I've made it so there's nothing to know. Who would want to give any attention to a girl who offers no intrigue or interest beyond her looks? I know exactly who: men who want nothing more than a pretty woman in their bed, which is exactly why I deprive myself of the potential of being loved. Not l.u.s.ted after, but loved. I never want to be my mother, yet here I am, tinkering too close for comfort on the edge of debas.e.m.e.nt.

I can tell that he's thinking hard about how to answer my question, like he knows it'll influence my decision to stay or leave. I'm willing him to make his next words count. 'I've told you, Livy.' He gestures me inside. 'You fascinate me.'

I don't know whether that's the right answer but I slowly walk into his apartment, and I definitely hear a quiet, relieved exhale of breath from behind me. I circle the round table in his entrance hall, placing my bag on the white marble as I pa.s.s, before coming to a stop, not knowing whether to sit myself on the couch or go into the kitchen. There's an air of awkwardness surrounding us and despite his words in the car, it's difficult.

He walks ahead of me and shrugs off his suit jacket, laying it neatly over the back of a chair before making his way to the drinks cabinet. 'Would you like a drink?' he asks, pouring some dark liquid into a tumbler.

'No.' I shake my head, even though he's not facing me.

'Water?'

'No, thank you.'

'Sit down, Livy,' he orders, turning and gesturing towards the couch.

I follow his pointed hand and take my reluctant body to the large cream-coloured leather couch while he leans against the cabinet, slowly sipping his drink. No matter what he does with those lips, whether it's speaking or simply taking a sip of a drink, it's distracting. They move so slowly, almost sensuously . . . deliberately.

I'm desperately concentrating on regulating my thundering heartbeat but I lose the battle completely when he moves towards me and sits on the coffee table in front of me, his elbows braced on his knees, his drink suspended in front of his lips, his eyes simmering with all sorts of promises. 'I need to ask you something,' he says quietly.

'What?' I blurt the word quickly, worriedly.

His gla.s.s lifts slowly but those eyes stay on mine. 'Are you a virgin?' he asks before tipping the tumbler to his lips.

'No!' I recoil, mortified that he's taken my reluctance as an indication of that. But in truth, I wish I was.

'Why are you so offended by my question?'

'I'm twenty-four years old.' I s.h.i.+ft uncomfortably in my seated position, diverting my eyes away from his inquisitive stare. I can feel my face heating, and I want to grab one of his fancy silk cus.h.i.+ons to cover it.

'When was the last time you had s.e.x, Livy?'

I'm dying on the spot. What does it matter when I last slept with someone? Running seems like the best option for me but my reason for escaping has changed.

'Livy,' he prompts, placing his drink down, the c.h.i.n.k of gla.s.s on gla.s.s making me jump slightly. 'Will you please look at me when I'm speaking to you?'

His sternness irritates me, and that's the only reason I do as I'm told and look at him. 'My history has nothing to do with you,' I say quietly, resisting the temptation to s.n.a.t.c.h his drink and down it.

'I simply asked you a question.' His surprise at my sudden s.p.u.n.k is clear. 'It's usually polite to answer a question when you're asked one.'

'No, it's down to my discretion whether I answer any questions that I'm asked, and I don't see what relevance your question has.'

'My question has plenty of relevance, Livy, as will your answer.'