Page 45 of Arrogant Heir

Whatever it is, I know I’ve got it bad. Perhaps Simon and my mum have a point and I should end the contract before it gets even harder to leave him?

CHAPTER29

Jamie

The papers are spread over the table, and I’ve combed through all the articles about Damian. There are a lot. The sensational headlines lead to longer articles inside all the papers.

It’s not a pretty read and my heart shrivels as I process all the women they’ve associated him with. I can see why he’s known as the Rochester playboy and feel silly when I think of how I protected him against Simon and my mum’s concerns.

There’s a piece about his father dying following a car accident and his long-term girlfriend, Stephanie De Winter, leaving him soon after. According to their source, she left him for his best friend, and they say they’re still together but aren’t married.

Poor Damian. I’m seeing why he comes across as so distant and cold. Going through all that trauma in a short period of time would be enough to turn anyone bitter. I can see if I’m not careful, I’ll be bitter too, after what happened with Simon.

It’s tempting to let yourself blame a whole gender for something one person has done, but I know it’s unfair. You have to judge people as individuals, and I remember what my mum said about perhaps Simon just isn’tthe one.

I’ve come up with a draft for the press release. Not having ever written one to rebuff these kinds of sensational claims, it took me a while. I’ve only ever written press releases to announce an author’s new book, which is straightforward promotion.

My phone pings, and my heart quickens when I see it’s a text from Damian.

Red.I’m free this afternoon. Come up to my suite (top floor) as soon as you’re done working on the press release. I’d like to see it. D.

I don’t need to see his initial to recognise his style and know it’s from him. He’s used to telling people what to do and having them obey him without question.

Sometimes he calls me Red, not Jackson, and I don’t let on to him, but I like it. Makes me feel special, rather than just another of his worker drones. Makes me hopeful he likes me more than he lets on, but I quickly remind myself he has a way with women and easily gets them to bend to his will. He wouldn’t have earned the reputation of being a notorious playboy, otherwise, would he?

I’m dying to see him—my blood’s racing just at the thought—but on principle, I wait before replying. I can’t allow myself to let him think I wait around for him to summon me, and snap to attention the minute he does.

Call me rebellious, or even stubborn. It won’t be the first time, but I’m not letting him boss me around like that. I’ve always been self-employed and allergic to the 9-5, which whilst it has its drawbacks, the enormous benefit is I set my own hours and terms of work. I decide who I work with. He might think he’s my boss, but he’s not really.

He is my client. I just haven’t broken the news to him yet. And soon it’ll all be over anyway, and I’ll be free to walk out the door and continue on to my next assignment. And he’ll continue bossing his staff around just like he’s doing with me.

The thing I find fascinating as I wait out the self-imposed ten minutes, and my thoughts swirl about my tired brain, is that his commanding attitude doesn’t make him less desirable to me. If anything, it makes him more magnetic. I’ve studied universal fantasies for fiction writing, and the fact is that women respond to masterful men. It’s in our DNA, whether we like it or not. There’s a reason romance is the biggest selling genre and that irresistible leading men are often introduced as difficult, arrogant, and ass-holish (for want of a better word).

You’ve only to think of Mr Darcy and how two centuries after Jane Austen wrotePride and Prejudice, we’re still swooning over arguably the most romantic hero of all time. It all started when he refused to dance with Lizzie, but as the story unfolds, he reveals his true—hidden from those who don’t know him well—generous nature through grand gestures, and his proud mask falls away as he declares his love for her. It still ranks at the top of bestselling romance lists.

But I’m not living in a romantic novel. I’m only writing one and I must remember it is a fantasy. It’s no surprise I’m projecting my fantasy onto an unsuspecting Damian, who by the sounds of it is broken-hearted after the love of his life did the dirty on him. I don’t blame him for staying single after that.

Damian is more like the handsome Edward Lewis inPretty Woman.He doesn’t hate Vivian, but he doesn’t know how to love fullyuntil her. He’s been wounded and protects his heart. This must be why Damian ploughs through women and never commits.

An image of the woman who sold her story to the paper floats into my mind. She made it sound like he used her, and she was an innocent victim. But if she was billionaire husband-hunting, they both knew exactly what they were doing, and she was angry that he didn’t fall into her net.

I try to imagine what it must be like to be a woman like that, but I can’t. The idea of hunting for a wealthy husband in such a predatory fashion and then selling your story to the papers when your prey doesn’t take the bait makes me feel sick.

I change out of my jeans and comb the walk-in wardrobe for something sexier to wear, hating myself for my weakness. But then I realise Damian already saw what I was wearing this morning, so I pull my jeans back on. Don’t want him thinking I’ve dressed up specially to see him.

Yes, I know. I’m overthinking things again.

By the time I’m ready to leave, a whole twenty minutes have ticked by. I text him back a simple:On my way.

I deliberate over signing off as J or even R. He’ll know who the text is from so I opt for no sign off. Not even a smiley face, as it seems unprofessional.

The spring breeze whips round the old manor house, and I clutch my jacket to me. The sun is hidden behind the grey clouds, and the open parkland offers no defence from the chill, and I shiver as I run into the house.

The staff has stopped treating me like a visitor, which is lovely, but I don’t know exactly where Damian’s ‘suite’ is. I’m curious to have a mooch about the house, as I’ve never been upstairs, so I decide not to ask someone to accompany me. That way, I would be escorted right to his door instead of taking my time and having a poke around.

I walk tentatively up the winding wooden staircase, my heart slamming into my chest with every step, making me breathless. The stairs suit the gothic vibe of the old house and creak a bit here and there. I like they haven’t modernised the whole place to the point of erasing its character. The furniture throughout the rooms downstairs is expensive and fine, as you’d expect for such a wealthy family, but it’s tastefully done and in fitting with the style of Greystone.

The space lays before me as I step onto the carpeted landing. It’s huge and I glimpse so many doors and have no clue what leads to what. Maybe I’ll ask someone to give me a proper house tour before I leave. It seems a shame to have the opportunity to explore such a lovely old place and not make the most of it.