Page 46 of Arrogant Heir
All the doors are closed, so I can’t wander in without risking intruding on someone. Apart from Damian, only his mother and grandfather are at home, but I don’t know which are their rooms. I turn back to the staircase and continue up to the top floor in search of Damian’s suite. That can’t be hard to find as my guess is it will take up most of the top floor or it wouldn’t be a suite, would it? I don’t know.
It’s one of the biggest houses I’ve been in apart from tourist visits to ancestral homes where they let you see just a part of it, and you’re accompanied all the way. I feel like I’m being nosy, and I’m relieved to reach the top floor.
I can’t see where I’m going and almost drop my bag, stuffed with the newspapers, but then the light flickers on. The landing is vast, and I pull up a blind to reveal a breath-taking view of the parklands and spot a spiral which must be Winchester Cathedral. I stand there for a minute, appreciating the beauty and waiting for my heart to stop thumping before I see Damian.
There’s a noise as a door opens at the end of the landing.
‘Ah, there you are. Where the hell have you been?’ Damian says, his deep melodic voice hitting me right in my solar plexus. ‘I was about to come and look for you. Did you get kidnapped on your way over?’
I attempt a carefree laugh, as if the sound of his voice doesn’t make my whole body flood with endorphins. His head is in shadow, and I can’t make out his face clearly. ‘So, this is your devil’s lair?’ I say.
‘Well, that’s one way of putting it, I suppose. Come in and you’ll see it’s merely a set of interconnecting rooms. Nothing devilish about it… You let your writers’ imagination run away with you, Red.’
He moves towards the light, and I see the door behind him. He holds it open, dwarfing it with his tall frame, and as I pass beneath his outstretched arm his masculine smell, which is a mixture of sweat and musky cologne wafts up my nose and makes me tingle in places you shouldn’t tingle when you come to meet your boss or your client.
He follows me in, and the door clicks behind him. ‘Excuse my running gear. I didn’t sleep well last night and nodded off after my run. Haven’t taken a shower yet.’
I meet his tired eyes and he rubs his fingers over his Saturday stubble. I’ve never seen him not clean shaven, and he looks and smells divine. He’s pure male and even though I know it makes no sense whatsoever, and he’s the last man I should be with, I yearn for his touch.
I’ve never craved a man physically like this. He has a raw animal sex appeal that I can’t hide from or fight. I feel a deep longing for him to take me, right here, right now.
But I reply, ‘No problem. It’s the weekend, after all. I’m not exactly dressed up either.’ I point to my jeans and tilt my head and smile, hoping he doesn’t sense how hot and bothered I feel.
He looks at me in a way I’ve not seen him look at me before, like he wants to eat me whole, and this time I recognise the naked desire in his eyes and my stomach fizzes. It’s unmistakable, and the air hangs between us like a hot blanket.
‘You look gorgeous whatever you wear,’ he says. ‘I like you in jeans. You look like a naughty tom boy.’
His voice is low and husky, and he runs his fingers through his messy post-run hair. His Adam’s apple moves as he talks.
I lick my lips and struggle to swallow. He’s still wearing the running pants and looks even hotter than when he’s immaculately groomed. I stop my eyes straying to his bulging crotch and raise my chin. ‘I’ve brought the papers and written a rough draft of a press release, like your grandfather asked. Shall we look at it together?’
He beckons towards the large table and asks, ‘Can I get you a drink?’
I shake my head and we sit next to each other, the air crackling between us no matter how mundane the conversation.
Looking around the luxurious state-of-the-art room, I try to lighten the mood. Maybe his chemistry is just like this with women. ‘This is a beautiful room. I like what you’ve done with it.’
He offers me his half-smile and my stomach lurches.
There’s a massive TV on the wall and a blue suede sofa which could sleep a family of four. There are paintings on the walls and one of them looks like a Monet. It doesn’t look fake, but I wouldn’t know.
‘Is that a Monet?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘Yes, it was my father’s favourite and has been in the family since the early days.’
I swallow again. My throat is like sandpaper and I see the familiar shadow cross his angular face.
‘Sorry about your father. I read about the accident in one of the papers this morning. To lose him like that must have been a nightmare. I don’t know my father, but that’s because he left us when I was little.’
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I didn’t handle it well, I’m afraid. His death marked the beginning of a downward spiral for me and is probably the reason we’re surrounded by all these newspaper headlines.’ He pauses and then raises his head to meet my eyes. ‘Sorry about your father, Jackson. I didn’t know.’
‘How could you? It’s okay. I have an amazing mother and honestly don’t know what it’s like to have a father, anyway.’
‘Shall we get started?’ He asks.
I see the sadness lurking in his green eyes.
Pulling out the papers from my bag, I spread them across the table. One of his muscled thighs in the snug running pants touches mine as we reach for the various papers, and I feel his heat. There’s no desk to keep us apart like in his office, and I’ve not sat this close to him before. It feels dangerous, like I might spontaneously combust. His masculine scent clings to my nostrils and taunts me as I pretend to be all business and talk him through my ideas about how to put out the fire around me being his mystery girlfriend and the false rumour of him cheating on me with the woman from the club.