Page 47 of Cross My Heart
He keeps his eyes on the road, slowly tracing along my bare arm. “It involves much less clothing, for a start.”
“Why?” I tease, “I thought you liked my outfit.”
“I’d like you more naked, so I can see those pretty nipples of yours tighten up when I touch you.”
I feel a rush of heat. Saint knows just the way to talk dirty to me, and his crisp accent makes the filthy words seem even more shocking.
I wriggle in my seat, and he gives a low chuckle. “You like it when I tell you what I want to do.”
“Yes,” I admit, breathing faster. Then, boldly, I take my hand from him and slowly trail it down his torso, until it’s resting in his lap. “But you like it, too.”
He’s hard, his cock stiff and straining beneath his pants.
Saint sounds a low groan, and I give him the briefest nudging stroke before withdrawing my hand. “Eyes on the road, mister,” I say, flirty. “You have precious cargo, here.”
“Yes, I do.” Saint flashes me a brief smile, before turning his attention back to the road ahead, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “But my God, I’m going to enjoy taking you apart.”
Yes please.
I crack the window winder, breathing in the afternoon air to cool my flushed body. Any more of this dangerously seductive banter, and I might make him pull over and show me that ravishing, right in the nearest lay-by. So, I turn on the music, and change the subject, asking about his love of jazz and teaching work at Ashford, until we finally arrive at the famous Lancaster house.
“House?” I ask, peering out the window as we speed up the drive, past a gatehouse, riding stables, and a long stretch of ornamental elm trees. “This is more of an estate. A small kingdom!” I can see tennis courts in the distance, and then the main house rises up in front of us, imposing and grand.
Saint chuckles. “But just you try keeping the place heated through a damp winter. These old country piles are all the same: Pretty to look at, but wracked with draught and rot.”
He pulls up beside a row of old, expensive cars, and I get out for a closer look. The sandstone is crumbled, covered with ivy in places, and there are statues and gargoyles along every roofline, and even a couple of turrets, too.
Turrets…
I pause, getting a flash of recognition. The photo in the Ashford yearbook, the one of Wren spinning around at a party… I quickly get out my phone and check the pic I snapped of the page.
It’s the same building in the background: unmistakable ivy and sandstone.
Wren was here. The mysterious party, the night it happened.
This is where she was taken.
“Ready to face the boredom and small-talk?” Saint asks, coming around the car and offering me his arm.
I quickly tuck my phone away. “And cucumber sandwiches,” I remind him, my mind still racing.
“How could I forget?”
Impeccably uniformed staff direct us around the side of the house, along walkways lined with elaborate topiary, to the lush back lawn where hundreds of people are mingling with a perfect view of the countryside.
I look around, wide-eyed. I planned to pay careful attention to everything here tonight, but it turns out, I won’t even have to try. There are silk canopies, plush seating areas, and tables set with elaborate floral displays and incredible-looking foods. A live band plays soft-rock hits on the patio, as the chicly-dressed crowd chats, laughs, and challenges each other to croquet.
“Is that… Agatha Mays?” I whisper to Saint, as I spot the legendary actress holding court with some dapper gentlemen. “She’s an icon!”
“Don’t let her hit the sherry though,” Saint says, steering me past them. “She’ll hit the piano and sing showtunes until dawn.”
“Of course,” I say faintly. Checking out the clothing of the women around us, I’m relieved to find that I blend right in. Some ladies have gone for elaborate patterns and wild headpieces like it’s the first day at the races, but generally, the vibe is understated wealth—with a serious collection of jewelry on display. “So what’s this event for, again?”
“The official reason is to celebrate the anniversary of Lancaster Press,” Saint explains, naming the newspaper publishing business that is the crown jewel in the Lancaster Media crown. “But they find a new theme every year. Nobody turns down an invite, not when every power player in British media and politics will be here. Handshake deals around every corner,” he adds, smiling. “Look, over there,” he whispers, pointing to two older men in designer pinstripes, murmuring intently by the rose bushes. “They could be dividing up British industry as we speak.”
“Youwanted to bail,” I point out, and he laughs.
“That’s because I have zero ambition,” Saint says, lifting a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. “I’m perfectly happy toiling at Oxford in obscurity.”