One delicious hookup deal

One rule—no falling in love

Mia Abbott never backs down from a challenge—especially one posed by sexy widowed billionaire Kit Faulkner. He’s dark, dangerous, damaged—and pure, raw sex appeal. And for the next three weeks, he’s also Mia’s boss. The rules of their wicked engagement? No romance. Only, one night together isn’t enough. They’re about to discover that the most forbidden things are also the hardest to give up...

Lifelong romance addict JC HARROWAY lives in New Zealand. Writing feeds her very real obsession with happy endings and the endorphin rush they create. You can follow her at jcharroway.com, Facebook.com/jcharroway, Instagram.com/jcharroway and Twitter.com/jcharroway.

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Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Forbidden to Want

JC Harroway

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08678-3

FORBIDDEN TO WANT

© 2019 JC Harroway

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To romance readers—you’re awesome.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
Kit

THE DECISIVE RAP at the door drags my attention from the dreary, grey view of London in the drizzle and back to my computer screen.

‘Just a minute.’ I shoot a scowl at the closed door and curse the interruption.

I’m thirty, part-owner of the family business I share with my brothers and head of luxury hospitality. I shouldn’t have to vet my own visitors or schedule my own appointments, but my assistant quit last week and I haven’t yet worked up the enthusiasm to hire a replacement.

This week will be hard enough without having unexpected extras piled on my plate. No doubt Reid, my efficient eldest brother, has circulated a company-wide memo outlining why my appearance at the office and my regard for polite discourse might be a little more sporadic than usual. The benefit of being the grieving widower, the family fuck-up, is that my usual demeanour provides the perfect antidote to the trivial. Unless it’s vital, people tend to steer clear.

‘Yes?’ I yell.

The Faulkner Group has many staff who could pander to my every administrative whim, but over the last three years I’ve managed to scare everyone off. Now only the brave venture close to my perpetual scowl for my signature on something my brothers deem important to the smooth running of our six London-based hotels.

Reid strides in, his thousand-pound suit immaculate and the air of authority his senior-sibling status grants him on display as if he wears a sandwich board emblazoned with his title: Head of the Faulkner Group, oldest of three brothers, here to keep the runt of the litter in line.

That I’m even physically in the office this week should appease the control freak in him, but one look at his expression tells me he expects more.

My back tenses, lifting the hairs above my collar. He’s going to be disappointed—we Faulkners are cut from the same cloth.

‘Kit, a moment...’ It’s not a question, a fact that slides sandpaper beneath my skin and rains nails down on my already tingling scalp.

I spin my chair from my view of the city, ready to hear him out with the minimum of interaction and then remind him of tomorrow’s date.

He’s not alone.

This adds hypodermic needles to the downpour of nails. If he expects to add social interaction to my to-do list, he’ll need to come back next week.

Fucking Reid. He’s aware of my triggers. Understands how tightly I run my ship since my life turned to shit. I slide my scowl from my brother. Reid’s companion is female.

My body perks up, an unwelcome slug of testosterone to the bloodstream, a half-arsed attempt at interest in the opposite sex. I’ve trained myself well in recent years. Forced myself to notice other pretty faces, appealing figures and interesting personalities.

She’s tall. Striking. Long, dark hair and a tanned, make-up-less face. The outfit covers a lean, athletic body. High, full breasts, a tapered waist and enough generosity through the hips to scream woman—all clad in a T-shirt decorated with some Japanese Kanji symbols and a pair of black skinny jeans.

My libido stirs—she’s a beautiful woman. And noticing beautiful women, scratching a mutual itch and moving on, is what I do now. All I do. For good, bad or ugly.

Still, if Reid thinks he’s replacing my last assistant with this dressed-down beauty, he can think again. I have rules, and professional work attire is rule number one.

I raise my stare from her slender, denim-clad legs. Who wears jeans to a job interview? She’s made my dismissal easy—I don’t need an assistant. And this casually dressed stranger, however compelling, looks completely at odds with the Faulkner Group’s workplace dress code.

I drag my body from the chair and straighten to my full six feet three inches to piss Reid off, who stands an inch below me, then slide the glare levelled on my brother to my visitor, dropping the annoyance in deference to her beauty.

‘Kit, this is Mia Abbott.’ Reid introduces the woman as if I’d been expecting her unconventional company.

My lips stretch with a flicker of greeting. Yes, she’s striking, but she’s superfluous to my current workplace requirements and, this week, a definite unwanted distraction.

Then she smiles.

I double-take.

Mia’s wide smile transforms her face like floodlights switching on behind her dark eyes. I hold the air trapped in my chest and reassess the entire Mia Abbott package, my cock stirring despite my current state of mind.

She’s mid-twenties, stunning in a way she probably doesn’t know it, the sun-kissed, slightly upturned nose dotted with golden freckles. Her earthy dark eyes glow in the wake of that happy-go-lucky smile still hovering on her face, despite my less than welcoming reception, and her mouth... Fuck—full lips, naturally red, a perfect Cupid’s bow.

Promising... I reassess my staffing needs despite the constant swirl of self-directed disgust that accompanies any thought of a sexual nature. Why couldn’t Reid have introduced Mia next week, or any day after tomorrow?

Still, the timing isn’t Mia’s fault and perhaps she’s not even here for me.

I take Mia Abbott’s hand, my grasp firm and a fraction too long for polite convention. Her returning shake presses my fingers together in a strong, warm caress that’s neither intimidated nor flirtatious.

Interesting...

My eyes dart to her left hand...single.

The only flaw Mia seems to possess is her habitual fidgeting, her fingers drumming against her thigh at odds with the wide, confident smile and the assertive handshake. Sadly, she won’t be around long enough for me to find that irritating. Working for me, if she makes the grade, won’t be easy. I keep erratic hours, spend days at a time ignoring my phone and use sex to remedy the unfixable parts of my life. Of course, I’m a gentleman—no woman leaves my bed without her world completely rocked.

‘Good to meet you,’ she says, her smoky voice sexy and accented.

My eyes return to her full lips as I try to place her variation of English. ‘Where are you from? Australia?’ I could listen to her talk all day. I slide my palm from hers, disengaging from our formal greeting, and shift an inch closer. I’m rewarded with a warm wave of her scent—some sort of flowery shit, perhaps honeysuckle, and fresh air.

She laughs, an uninhibited throaty chuckle, as if I’ve said something hilarious. I freeze. It’s been a long time since a woman laughed at me. Doesn’t she understand the rules of the boss-assistant dynamic of polite deference? Or the less appropriate but honest subtle lick of those luscious lips while her amber-speckled stare dropped to the front of my trousers.

Perhaps she has no interest whatsoever in sleeping with an emotional train wreck and no unrealistic ambitions to fix me.

Well-played, Reid.

‘I’m from New Zealand.’ She shrugs. ‘Trust me, there’s a big difference.’ Despite her semi-mocking smile, her seemingly calm assessment, the fine-boned fingers resume their fidgeting.

Perhaps she’s not quite immune to the Faulkner charm after all...

But if she’s sticking around, best she understand who’s in charge from the get-go. It’s not Reid, who seems to have come over all slack about the office dress code. I have rules. Rule number two—her rockin’ body, her lively, mischievous stare and her pouty lips aside—our connection will work best with a bare minimum of communication. Especially over the next two days.

At the timely reminder of the date, my stomach rolls, sharp and unpleasant, banishing the Mia-directed kick of lust. For the thousandth time this morning I force my mind away from memories and in particular my anniversary. If only I could distract myself with the delectable Mia.

Nope.

Sex is off the table, at least until I’ve survived tomorrow.

Anyway, my libido was ahead of itself, because exotic Miss Abbott isn’t looking at me with the level of interest I’ve grown to expect from members of the opposite sex. Hell, yes, I’m arrogant, but it’s as if I had tattooed emotionally unavailable widower on my forehead three years ago in neon ink.

How do women know? I must give off some pheromone that tells them I’m only looking for no-strings sex—the hot, carnal fucking of all their fantasies. On my terms.

Of course, once they’ve experienced the ride, most of them think they can change me, although I’m clear about it from the outset. That they think they’ll be the answer to all my problems, start imagining they can put a smile back on my face, is the problem.

Reid finally explains his Monday-morning Antipodean companion. ‘I’m glad we found you here.’ Shadows move behind his eyes, as if he can’t decide between relief I’m where I should be and concern that my presence at work might tip me over the edge. He ploughs on. ‘Mia will shadow you for three weeks. Can I leave you to give her the tour?’

Wait, three weeks? Shadow?

My shirt peels from my back as my muscles tense. Shelving the charm all three Faulkner brothers once possessed in spades, I question his highhandedness in front of the lady, my patience for his mistake non-existent. ‘I’m afraid my brother has been a little premature, Ms Abbott. I’m not currently in the market for a new assistant. Sorry he’s wasted both our time this morning.’

Mia’s wide eyes flick to Reid, but her full mouth twists as if she and Reid are in on some private joke.

Am I amusing...?

Perhaps she can’t decipher the cut-crystal nuances of the Etonian accent that cost my parents a fortune. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Who the hell is this woman, rocking up for an interview dressed like a student, only to find her potential future boss laughable? And what the fuck is going on in my brother’s head? Refreshing, appealing, sexy—nothing makes up for frank insubordination.

‘Oh, I’m not a PA.’ Mia speaks, humour igniting the flecks of gold in her irises. Irises she then rolls. ‘Wouldn’t have the first clue how to organise you. And I’d suffocate in an office job.’ Her amused stare scans my space and then settles on me.

So, this is a social visit and despite the cool way she’s assessing me with her toffee-apple eyes, perhaps Mia is looking for some holiday fun...

Great! Lay down the rules, check she’s on the same page of the casual sex manual and invite her out for a drink on Wednesday.

I ignore the rising heat in my groin—somehow still a betrayal. My guts twist, pulled in two opposing directions.

I glare at my brother, an ache radiating through my face from teeth which are clamped together. ‘Care to explain?’ I’m tired of his interference. I’m not a total arsehole—I know it comes from a place of caring. But it’s about time both he and my other brother, Drake, and the old man came to terms with the new, unimproved me.

Reid’s lips tighten, a sign he’s pissed and probably a little embarrassed that we’re airing our soiled Y-fronts in front of the enigmatic Ms Abbott. He’s like that—do the right thing, keep everyone else on track, boldly navigate the waters, no matter how rocky.

Reid clears his throat. ‘Mia is here to make the promotional film.’

I keep my face blank and ignore Mia’s tiny cough as she crosses her arms over her waist and looks down at the white carpet underneath her well-worn Converse.

Reid’s mouth hardens as he steps closer and dips his voice to a frustrated murmur. ‘Look, I know this is a difficult time for you, but we discussed this at the planning meeting last month. You signed off on her appointment.’ He slides a tight smile in Mia’s direction.

I shoot Reid a hard frown, certain I didn’t sign up for whatever the intriguing Mia Abbott is selling, but then, I don’t actually read the documents pertaining to the smooth running of our chain of boutique hotels. That was my assistant’s job.

My back muscles start to cramp I’m wound so tightly. Whatever has brought Mia around the world, I want no part of it. These days I work best alone. I upset fewer people that way. If I could fuck alone, I’d have no need to interact with others whatsoever.

I slip my hands into my trouser pockets and puff out my chest in my oldest brother’s direction—I could still take him and we both know it. ‘Promotional film?’ I slide an extra layer of bite into my tone. He or Drake can help Mia—she’s the last thing I need this week. I snatch another glance in her direction, the selfish-bastard part of me rebelling at passing her company over to either of my single brothers.

She’s still smiling as if highly amused by the brotherly face-off playing out for her entertainment. I clamp my jaw closed—I can’t decide if I’m pissed off or impressed by her audacity; keen to kick her out on what is probably a glorious arse—my biggest weakness—or kiss the amusement from that wide, generous mouth.

Reid scrubs his hand through his hair and shoots Mia an apologetic look, as if I’m an errant child who hasn’t practised scales in time for his piano lesson. ‘It’s all in the memo. If you hired a new assistant, perhaps you’d find it easier to stay on track.’

My answering grin is laced with antipathy. Reid knows I careered off track three years ago after my wife died, following one measly year of marriage. And now I’ve reached an impasse. I work when I want, control what I can and ignore anything else. Having your life literally snatched from your helpless hands will do that to a person.

My brother sighs. ‘You know we’re revamping the Faulkner Group’s website as well as the websites of each hotel. We’ve brought Mia in to make a promotional video that highlights all the best features our hotels offer, especially the Off the Guidebook package.’

The fog clears a fraction. He and Drake need my signature on anything to do with Bounty Events’ Off the Guidebook. It’s my business, offering tailored memory-building experiences for the discerning traveller—one I started after uni—and its links to the Faulkner hotel chain through the once in a lifetime packages we offer our guests ensure a mutually beneficial partnership.

‘Well, this is news to me.’ I offer Mia an apologetic smile for her wasted trip. I could take her for a consolation drink later in the week...

‘You agreed.’ Reid scratches a spot just above his left eyebrow—a sign of his mounting frustration. Any minute now he’ll drag out the for-fuck’s-sake-get-a-grip lecture he delivers at least once a week, one he adopted in his role as self-appointed caretaker to Drake and me after our parents split when I was fifteen.

Without waiting to be asked, Mia moves to the comfy seating area and relaxes into a white leather armchair, where she watches our discussion with bold, fascinated eyes, her fingers tapping a rhythm only she can hear on the chrome arm of the chair.

My hackles rise. I should be annoyed that she’s blatantly enjoying this sibling showdown but it’s the pulsing blood in my groin that wins the battle, and I have the inconvenient urge to tell Reid to fuck off, then strip her bare and go down on her where she’s sitting while she enjoys my view of London. Will she still find me amusing when she’s coming on my tongue?

I bite back the surge of testosterone and temper in my next words to Reid out of innate manners for the virtual stranger. ‘As you know, this isn’t the best week for me—find someone else.’

Besides, business ticks along pretty well. Typical Reid, trying to fix something that’s not broken.

Reid’s jaw tenses as his stare bores into mine. ‘You’ll recall the figures I emailed you yesterday.’ He’s talking about the continuing drop in uptake of the Off the Guidebook package, which sets us apart from our main competitors.

He slides a polite smile in Mia’s direction. ‘Mia’s work is award-winning. This is an excellent way to publicise our USPs in what is an increasingly competitive market.’

He doesn’t add that I’m the reason sales are down, or that I’ve lost my drive where growth of my business is concerned. World domination of the luxury travel and recreation marketplace is no longer of interest. He doesn’t need to—I’ve made my peace with the things I can and cannot control, preferring to focus on the former.

Of course, the most satisfying of those easily commanded areas of my life is sex. My eyes dart to the intriguing Mia.

Reid’s voice softens a fraction. ‘Both Bounty Events and the Faulkner chain will benefit.’ Even now he’s looking out for my business and reminding me of my responsibilities to the family, the brothers who stand by my side.

Another surge of futility erupts beneath my skin, forcing tension into my hands. I straighten my fingers, although I want to give rein to the fists this new twist inspires. The last thing I need is a distraction as appealing as Mia, and the timing will bite me in the arse.

I lean close, a last-ditch attempt to sway things my way with the minimum of effort. ‘We don’t need her,’ I say under my breath. ‘I don’t need her.’

Mia’s snort reaches us across the room, a fuck you to the subtlety I’ve tried to maintain for her sake.

She shows her steel. ‘I can hear you, you know.’ Reid and I both turn Mia’s way but she looks directly at my brother. ‘Temperamental you said, not rude.’

Reid sighs as if slapped in the face with those stained Y-fronts we’ve aired. So she’s been pre-warned about poor widower Kit.

She flicks her attention my way, ebony-hard eyes blazing challenge. ‘As of thirty minutes ago, Mr Faulkner, I’m under contract—all signed and sealed. Unless I fail to deliver the promised product, I expect the balance of my fee on receipt of the final, approved material.’ She smiles that dazzling smile, her eyes laced with defiance.

I sigh, turning away from my brother in disgust. If she’s here for three weeks to do a job sanctioned by me, one that will get my brothers off my back, I can’t even fuck her. 92 messy. Not that she’s shown any sign of sharing my physical interest.

My stare settles on the curve of her full mouth, the hint of pink tongue behind straight white teeth... On second thoughts, perhaps I could. Perhaps that’s the quickest way to get rid of her. We’ll have a good time. She’ll realise I’m an arsehole she can’t change and want nothing more to do with me.

Reid moves, snapping the soupy tension that coils across the room, connecting this enigmatic woman and me like tentacles.

‘Well,’ he slaps my shoulder, ‘my work here is done.’

I shoot him a look that promises retribution. I must imagine the residual flicker of concern on his face because Reid casts me the smug grin of someone who’s not that fond of his teeth. ‘Don’t forget the theatre tonight—’

‘I’m well aware of my professional commitments.’

Although I could do without them today.

Reid nods. ‘Give my regards to Mr and Mrs Sanchez.’ He strides to Mia, who stands and shakes his hand with another of her knockout smiles. Already there’s a warmth to their leave-taking that adds another convoluted twist to my knotted intestines.

Reid’s parting shot ends any hope of my day panning out the way I’d planned—getting through, alone, with only my dark thoughts for company.

‘Perhaps Mia could accompany you to the theatre tonight?’ He tosses a malicious grin over his shoulder, so reminiscent of teenaged Reid, who enjoyed flexing his superior strength over his younger brothers.

Bastard.

He looks to Mia for her nod of approval. ‘She doesn’t officially start work until tomorrow,’ he adds, ‘but... I’ll leave you two to work out the finer details.’ With one last smirk he departs, optimistically closing the door behind him.

If he were any sort of gentleman, he’d have held the door open—the fascinating foreigner currently staring at me as if trying to figure me out won’t be staying that long. I turn to the woman I can’t fuck or fire, a tight smile on my face.

CHAPTER TWO
Mia

THE MINUTE WE’RE alone the pressure in my lungs builds to screaming point and my pulse thrums stronger. I slowly release the air trapped above my diaphragm through pursed lips to conceal my conflicted urges—either to run from Kit Faulkner or kiss the arrogant smirk from his tempting lips. A wise woman would grab her beloved camera and race back to Heathrow, just to escape the fog of sexual tension and other un-named undercurrents filling his swanky office.

Instead, I lift my chin and return his stare—I never back down from a challenge.

Kit’s big, brooding size owns the room—feet planted wide, broad chest on display, hands casually slung in his pockets, his eyes peeling away my layers. Another injection of stubbornness raises my eyebrows in his direction. He can male posture as much as he likes—my cage isn’t easily rattled.

The need to prove I’m more than he no doubt sees is easy to ignore. I’ve never belonged in a box and I’m not about to conform simply because Kit Faulkner is the sexiest man I’ve ever met.

Whew, I wasn’t expecting sparks when I arrived at the Faulkner offices. Shame he’s an arsehole.

Ignoring the trickle of excitement raising the hairs on my arms, I settle back, forcing my body to relax into the leather and my mind to remember all the reasons I’m happy being single. My corneas protest, the scalding intensifying until my eyes start to water. Only my competitive nature stops me from getting lost in the stare down. Lost in the centre-of-the-earth-deep navy-blue eyes of his. The annoyance he displays in their inky depths awakens my reckless side, which is never far from the surface.

Let’s play, Mr Faulkner.

‘So, your day isn’t going as planned...?’ I cross my legs and swing my foot in time with my heartbeat while I wait for him to fill the stilted atmosphere Reid left behind. Whether his irritation is directed at me—an unexpected stranger forced upon him—or at the handsome, more personable older brother is unclear. But my direct question works. I’ve definitely poked the bear awake.

His mouth thins—a travesty, because it’s full and lush and surrounded by sexy stubble. ‘You could say that.’ Still no smile, but his teeth scrape his bottom lip as if he’s thinking dark thoughts behind those dark eyes, which harbour the unmistakeable flicker of interest.

I evaluate what I know, what’s been hinted at and what I’ve deduced. He’s single, hot as and probably highly sexed. And rude. Don’t forget rude. I glance at the outer office. That probably explains the missing assistant.

Despite the brief heads-up from the charming Reid—my brother goes through lots of staff, don’t take it personally—I’m clearly not immune to Kit’s conventional, almost cruel, good looks. His hair is a little long and too dishevelled to match the elegant perfection of his older brother, but when teamed with the devil-may-care scruff on his chiselled face and the intense fuck-off vibe in his brooding stare, the look packs a punch like a blowtorch to a cobweb. Because it screams sex. Dark, intense, dangerous sex.

Dangerous because there’s a kind of anguish that radiates from behind those eyes in gloomy waves like the sheets of drizzle soaking London today, disarming me to the point that the fleeing-back-to-Heathrow option looks increasingly tempting.

But then, where’s the fun in that...?

I smile, showing him I’m not perturbed by his frigid reception ‘Well, thanks for this opportunity.’ I’m just here to do my job, not to dig into this uptight English dude’s psyche. But perhaps I should show more graciousness.

‘I’m really looking forward to this commission.’ Landing this prestigious contract with the Faulkner Group will not only fund my next trip to South America, it’s also allowed me to visit my brother, who moved to London two years ago to marry the love of his life.

‘I think we’ve established your appointment was nothing to do with me. But perhaps we can make the most of it.’ Kit plants himself in the seat opposite, his elbow propped on the chrome armrest and his thumb and forefinger rubbing at his bottom lip as if he’s formulating a plan. A plan to deal with me?

I squeeze my thighs together, my imagination like a moth trapped inside a lampshade. Why does he have to make this so...enticing? To stop myself drooling, I look away from his ridiculously handsome face and focus on London’s iconic cityscape behind him.

‘Great—it’s my first trip to London. I travel a lot but I’ve never been here.’ The buzz of excitement for exploring a new a city runs through my veins.

Perhaps that buzz is the reason Kit Faulkner’s stare seems to penetrate my clothes, even my skin, his tortured interest a slither of electricity swooping over to join the persistent throb between my legs.

From looks alone, a quick game with Kit Faulkner is something I’d normally consider. And if that hint of danger in Kit’s aura grows any bigger, burns any brighter, I’m doomed.

I uncross my legs while I breathe through the flutter of my pulse in my throat. I won’t go there. He’s too intense. Too...damaged. Too...consuming.

I don’t do relationships, so I have a radar for people only interested in casual. Instinct and the delicious thrumming between my legs tell me I’d walk away from Kit Faulkner’s bed not only saddle sore, but thoroughly mind-fucked too.

It’s those eyes...

Risk is stamped all over him—not the physical, adrenaline thrill I’m always up for, but the temptation to get sucked into those fathomless pools and the turmoil they conceal. That’s not me. Caring that much is the role of a long-term lover or a girlfriend and I’ve never been either.

I swivel my hips a fraction, pressing the seam of my jeans where I want it to stop me from becoming a cliché and succumbing to the dark, seductive stare thing he has going.

I force a polite, professional smile, willing my body to stand down from this unforeseen attraction to my new client. He’s still staring, brooding intensity and heat in his eyes even while he tries to intimidate me with his silent perusal.

My smile stretches. Does he expect me to crumble because he’s displayed how inconvenient he finds my presence? My lips twitch, controlled by a sense of perverse devilment.

I lift my eyebrows. ‘I am free tonight, by the way, and I love the theatre.’ A lie. I have nothing in my backpack I could wear to the theatre. I’m not the theatre type. I’m outdoorsy, sporty, adventurous—my parents’ generation would have labelled me a tomboy. But we don’t do labels in our family. Despite being older than most parents, mine are progressive, liberal and non-judgmental. The perfect parents for a couple of kids who don’t fit into any mould and who no one else wanted.

Kit works his jaw, ignoring my attempts to steer the conversation back to the job he’s paying me handsomely to complete. ‘Tell me, Mia...’ My name vibrates in his deep English voice. ‘Have you seen much of the city? Had time to explore?’

‘No. I arrived yesterday, and I’ll see enough of London while I work for you. I’m staying with my brother and his husband in Camden until I complete this contract, and then I’ll be moving on.’

Keep moving. Keep exploring. Keep free.

A blunt knife burrows between my ribs—old, rusty, predictable.

The prickle of restlessness that travelling normally helps me outrun returns. The irony that my job has brought me here, to a city of millions where one person, somewhere, is related to me by blood, twists my insides.

I breathe through the feeling, reminding myself that travelling the world beats putting down roots. A bird’s world view, not an oak tree’s.

Kit’s fathomless eyes still project a dichotomous vibe that veers from mild hostility to overt interest. Why is he angling to get rid of me? Does he dislike his perfectly amiable brother so much? Or perhaps he’s taken an instant dislike to my quirkiness. He needs to pick one emotion and stick to it, though. His indifference I can handle, but his seductive stare, which promises one thing and one thing only, grows harder to resist.

But resist I must.

‘Hmm...’ he says. ‘Well, perhaps I can pay the outstanding balance of your fee. You can leave today. Spend time with your family. See the sights London has to offer.’ He smiles then, for the first time, as if my acceptance of his generous but bizarre offer is a foregone conclusion. As if he’s used to getting his own way.

I bet he is. Well, some of us aren’t easily controlled.

I almost laugh, but I’ve already sniggered at his attempts to chase me off twice, so I’d best not push my luck. A Faulkner recommendation is worth more than it costs me to ignore Kit’s attitude. Intrigue adds to the other unexpected emotions that meeting him has unleashed.

What is he afraid of? What is he hiding?

Energy coils inside. I expected this job to be fun, but Kit’s added layer after layer of excitement to the mix until I’m practically trembling from the adrenaline in my bloodstream.

I shake my head slowly, a small smile dancing on my mouth. ‘I’m a professional film-maker, Mr Faulkner, with a reputation to uphold, a product to create and deliver. You and your brothers brought me in for a reason.’

No matter how much my libido wants this uncompromising Englishman, I’m no pushover. But he’s making this too easy, too much fun. I sit up straighter in the chair, all ready and raring to tackle Kit Faulkner head-on.

‘Fuck.’ He mutters under his breath, looking away. His fingers massage his brow as if seeking inspiration through telepathy and his jaw muscles bunch. At this rate he’ll have no enamel left. I take pity on him, my body’s reaction to the unforeseen chemistry between Kit Faulkner and me softening my response.

‘Why don’t you discuss the project with me, go over the Bounty Events company ethos, provide some creative pointers for the film?’

Instead of trying to sway things your way.

I have the brief Reid emailed to me memorised for today’s meeting: the Faulkner chain of small boutique hotels is synonymous with high-end luxury; lacking the grandeur of the big London hotels, they offer top-of-the-range luxury, exquisite catering and, if you can afford the services of Kit Faulkner’s partner company, Bounty Events, a menu of unique, once-in-a-lifetime experiences, overseen by the edible man still staring at me with impenetrable eyes.

Whatever he hopes to achieve with that look, the resultant effect is the trickle of heat through my blood, the rush usually reserved for when I’m airborne with my action camera strapped to my head.

‘I have a meeting now.’ He rises, dismissing me and makes his way to his uncluttered desk. ‘Your arrival this morning was...unscheduled.’

Controlling, arrogant...and grinding my usually laid-back gears. ‘Not for me. And not for your brothers.’

He focuses on his laptop as if deaf to my comeback, the epitome of eye candy if you’re into the haughty, crisp businessman type. The suit trousers fit him like a bespoke shield of armour, cupping his muscular arse and thick thighs. The shirt, although a little creased where he’s sat in his executive leather chair, is expensive enough it could probably walk around this office on its own and he emanates power, wealth, culture, as sure as the outright aloofness he’s wafting my way.

My tapping fingers pick up the pace—my worst habit, one that tells me I’ve been sitting for too long and need to get moving. I press them flat, cross my legs and force myself to enjoy his plush leather armchair, prolonging the showdown.

A battle of wills...?

Well, if you insist, Mr Faulkner.

He must sense his brush-off hasn’t achieved the likely intended goal—me scuttling from his office like a frightened mouse. He turns from his laptop screen, looking at me over one broad shoulder.

‘So I can’t persuade you to take the money and run?’

If this were any other city, if Kit hadn’t tried to control this from the outset, I might have been tempted to take his offer. I arch a brow in his direction. ‘I’m here to stay until the work is complete.’

With one last sweep of his eyes along the length of my body, a look that dismantles every scrap of my resolve to find him unattractive, Kit turns away.

‘If you’re determined to complete this project, it will be under my full direction.’ He taps some keys on his laptop, once more gifting me a view of his sculpted back and arrogantly broad shoulders.

I smile. The Kit effect fosters my defiance and my curiosity to probe just how deep his control goes. I won’t be put into a box, despite my body’s instant physical attraction to him.

‘I prefer full creative control of my work. We can discuss it further tonight.’

End of conversation.

I stand and he gives me his full attention. His energy leaves me jittery, vibrating, as if I’ve stepped into his force field and any minute now I’ll be reduced to a cloud of excited molecules. It’s more of an enticement than a deterrent and I step closer still.

His lip curls. ‘Do you own suitable attire for the theatre?’ He looks me over, heat back in those eyes, like the blue at the centre of a Bunsen flame. The haughty attitude says one thing, but his baby blues give him away.

I embed my feet in his impractical carpet, hoping the soles of my shoes are grubby from the wet streets outside. ‘It’s not a jeans kind of affair?’ I widen my stare, all innocence, biting the side of my tongue to prevent a smile escaping when he all but rolls his eyes. I’m certain he finds me lacking. Unlike the crisp, sophisticated women I met downstairs, I care little about make-up, manicures or fashion.

‘Sadly, no. Is that all you’ve travelled with?’

I shrug. ‘Most of my baggage allowance was taken up with my filming equipment.’ I live in clothes hardy enough to weather lying on the ground or climbing over fences, all in pursuit of the perfect shot.

His mouth tightens, and once more I have the crazy urge to kiss him. To push him back into his expensive chair and straddle him while ruining what’s left of his overlong hairstyle, just to prove that his body is interested in the woman wearing jeans currently cluttering up his immaculate but sterile workspace.

But I shelve my urges for the thrill of simple physics—opposite and opposing forces.

You push, I push, Mr Faulkner.

His next statement gives me pause, landing another well-aimed blow.

‘I’ll have something suitable sent over. Be ready by six p.m.’ He returns his focus to his laptop, his fingers moving over the keys with speed. Even his hands are sexy.

Damn.

Wait...suitable? Sent over? What the fuck...? This isn’t Pretty Woman. I won’t be playing Julia Roberts to his control-freak Richard Gere.

‘I don’t need your clothes. We do have theatres in New Zealand.’ Damn. Now I’ll have to waste my afternoon shopping, with jet lag, when I could be hanging out with Will. My fingers dance on my thigh. I press my hand flat. ‘It’s just a play. Are all Brits as snobby as you?’ Will’s hubby, Josh, is lovely...

Another snort. ‘It’s more than a play.’ Another hot but assessing look. ‘Our clients expect the five-star service they pay for and which we deliver. Anyone can buy the best seats in the house—Faulkner clients want the personal touch. To be schmoozed and personally escorted by me and, if you want this job, by you also. Temporarily.’ He licks his bottom lip, contemplating the expression I hope says unfazed.

‘Personally, I don’t care what you wear,’ he continues, his eyes sliding over me with enough heat he could be imagining me naked. ‘But you cannot schmooze two of my most valued clients in jeans. Consider it a uniform, if it upsets you, but if you want the job, that’s one of my rules.’

How many rules does he have? And how many can I break? I narrow my eyes while the prickle of a thousand ants covers my skin.

Rules? Uniforms? Schmoozing?

I’ve spent years growing comfortable with who I am and overcoming where I came from. Tonight, dressed up in some sort of fancy frock so Kit’s VIP can flaunt his wealth, won’t be the first time I’ve felt like I don’t belong.

But Kit’s next words cement my decision.

‘Unless Reid has miscalculated...now’s the time to back out, Mia.’ A small smile tugs at his decadent mouth. My own lips tingle, the urge to kiss him returning in full force. He’d love it if I caved that easily—a big suck it to his brother and a way to get rid of the inconvenient woman who doesn’t own a cocktail dress with one blow.

‘I’m a Kiwi, as New Zealanders are affectionately termed. I’m up to any job.’

Including him, his intriguing impenetrable guard and his ridiculous rules.

I offer a saccharine smile. ‘I look forward to receiving your couture. I’m a size six shoe and size ten dress.’

Another swipe of his brooding stare scrapes at my nipples. ‘I know what size you are.’

Oh, I bet he does. I bet he’s used to controlling everything, including the wardrobes of fawning females, before showing them the sheet-clawing night of their lives and then scarpering faster than I could say Not with this chick, buddy.

I stand taller, using my height to my advantage. In flats Kit can still peer down at me, but in heels, something I rarely wear, we’d be almost eye to eye. Now, despite the fact that I’m immune to fancy clothes, I have no idea how to put on eyeliner and don’t own hair straighteners, my breath hitches as I look forward to tonight, to challenging both his misconceptions and his rigid control.

With one last smirk I can’t help but deliver, I offer him my hand for a curt handshake, turn on my heel and head for the door. ‘See you at six, then.’

My palm tingles as I walk away, still resonating with his touch, while the hum of an electrical storm buzzes throughout my nervous system. This job just became a whole lot more interesting.

And Kit’s sheet-clawing ride of a lifetime...tempting. A chuckle escapes me as I press the button for the lift. I’m a film-maker after all. Perhaps I’ll film the experience.

CHAPTER THREE
Mia

PRIMPING AND PREENING is so time-consuming—no wonder I don’t have the patience for it under normal circumstances. The dresses, plural, arrive at my brother’s house from Harvey Nichols within the hour. Multiple extravagant garments draped in swanky bags and wrapped in delicate, monogrammed tissue paper.

I’m half tempted to cut off all the tags and then return them to Kit’s office claiming none of them fit. But Kit clearly knows his way around a woman’s body, because all but one could have been made specifically for me.

Will and Josh help me select one uniform from the exquisite, but over-the-top, creations on offer and then sit me down to watch a YouTube video on how to apply a minimal make-up look. Josh, a chartered accountant, plays make-up artist. A good thing—I’d have probably poked out my own eyeball with the mascara wand.

When I open their front door at the appointed hour, my gait unsteady in the ridiculous heels Kit sent, his tall frame fills the doorstep. Despite the stern lecture I gave myself, his appearance hits me square in the stomach, flooding my hyper-aware system with addictive adrenaline.

Fight or flight? Equally tempting with this sexy sod.

Mouthwatering, smelling divine and wearing the same dishevelled hair, facial scruff and dark stare as earlier, he swoops his eyes over me, a small smile kicking up one corner of his mouth to reveal a single, bracketing dimple.

The pad of my index finger tingles to trace the fine line left by that dimple. The made-for-me dress shrinks two sizes, squeezing my ribcage. That smile, even only a shadow of one...so not fair.

‘I see you found one that fits?’ he says.

The silky fabric may as well be sheer—he looks at me like he’s as aware as I am that it’s the only barrier between his eyes and my nakedness. His eyebrows flick up. ‘Good choice.’

‘Whoa... A polite compliment?’

He shakes his head, a ghost of remorse flitting over his face. ‘Yes. I was...abrupt earlier. I just don’t like surprises, and I wasn’t expecting you.’

It’s not quite an apology, but I’m still thrown. I focus on the fact the scrummy man cluttering my brother’s doorstep has insisted on dressing me up. Why have I allowed such pretentious nonsense? Because I like a challenge? Because I’ve got something to prove? Some urge to fit into his world, however briefly?

‘One would have been sufficient—did you have to send over the entire evening-gown department?’ I’m extra-snippy, realising I’ve done exactly what I said I wouldn’t—conform.

Kit shrugs. ‘My business, my rules. A uniform, remember.’

I sigh, now regretting the make-up. The uniform crap was difficult to argue, but the face...that was all me.

My belly tightens. Why am I trying to impress this man? Aside from his effortless sex appeal, I usually consider myself immune to everything he represents. But that’s clearly the answer—I’m not immune to the sexual allure. That dispensed with, I’m guessing the Kit effect would be rendered inert.

He pulls one hand from his trouser pocket, reaching up to grip my elbow. I barely have time to ensure the front door closes behind me before he guides me to the sleek black car idling at the kerb. But those few seconds provide enough time for the heat of his palm to register, to prick at my skin and leave the ghost of a handprint, not quite an itch, not quite a thrill.

I pull my arm from his grip. I can walk unaided. Just about. And now he’s touched me, I’m back to square one on the resisting-him scale.

He opens the car door and silently urges me inside, the doorstep smile and its breath-stealing effect now a distant blip. Although I need the timely reminder, neither is relevant.

This is work. Boring work. Absolutely no excitement on offer whatsoever. Definitely no sexual undercurrents.

My temples pounding, already I’m regretting my impulse to accompany him tonight. Already dreading mixing with a packed theatre full of play-loving strangers dressed to the nines. An outsider, out of my comfort zone—why do I always have to push, to prove myself? Why couldn’t I have just told Kit where to stick his job, his money and his heated looks and helped Will and Josh shop for baby clothes?

I could have been watching a movie with them right now, having cracked open my favourite Terry’s Chocolate Orange—a giant one I bought, duty-free. But that reckless streak in me has me spending the evening with Grumpy, while he arse-kisses his wealthy clients.

I take a rational breath, hoping to solve at least one of my problems with a little self-talk. Just because my biological mother lives somewhere in London, doesn’t mean I’m likely to run into her in Kit’s private theatre box... Not that I’d know her if I literally fell from these outrageous shoes into her lap. And who cares about belonging, fitting in? I have a fantastic, supportive adoptive family and an amazing, globetrotting job.

Pep talk over, I slide the dress flat under my backside in case he wants to return it, uncreased, or pass it on to the next mannequin he tries to intimidate into behaving exactly the way he wants, while Kit rounds the back of the car and slides in beside me. And then we’re off.

It’s a new experience for me, being chauffeur-driven, but I keep my face neutral, serene, silently enjoying the fizz bubbling up in my chest. I feign uninterest by glancing out of the tinted windows.

‘Where are we going? I don’t do the Bard.’ I turn my undivided attention back to Kit. ‘It’s a personal rule of mine.’ I offer a tight smile as my fingers tap wildly against the tiny clutch bag included with the shoes, as if they too need an outlet for being expensively trussed up like a turkey for his pleasure.

Control freak.

‘The West End—the Shaftesbury.’ His lips twitch. Actually twitch. ‘The Bard?’ He stares, his eyes flicking over my features as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

‘Yes. Watching Shakespeare is three hours of our lives we can never get back.’ I look away, but not before I see him shake his head in...disbelief? Amusement?

Kit slides his arm along the back of the leather seat and angles his body to face me, amused eyes narrowed. My skin tightens in the foreign get-up. I may as well be swimming around under a lens for his invasive inspection—a fish out of water.

He rubs at his bottom lip. ‘Not a fan of the theatre?’

I shrug.

‘What do you like?’ His eyes scan my face.

I stare back and his navy eyes burn into mine, latching on to my erogenous zones like heat-seeking missiles and setting off a series of miniature explosions.

‘I prefer to be active.’ The need to prove myself throbs harder every time he looks down his slightly crooked nose at me and every time I remember I’m in a strange city, closer than I’ve ever been to the woman who birthed me. But I hold his stare, the rebelliousness helping to counteract the attraction.

‘That’s why I love my job. What makes me good at it.’ I wouldn’t be sitting here in his luxury-on-wheels car otherwise. The two older Faulkner brothers I met this morning have a clear vision for their empire and exacting standards for their staff. I shouldn’t care, but I want Kit to know that I’m more than the dressed-up doll he’s made me with the uniform.

Not that the ridiculous dress he sent over, which barely conceals my braless chest, qualifies. And screw him and his rules. He’s rude, obnoxious and acts entitled. ‘If you’d just sign off on my ideas for the film you need never see me again. I’ll be done filming in a matter of weeks, a fortnight if the British weather plays nice.’

He offers no comeback. The car jolts to the right to avoid some cyclist with a death wish and Kit’s thigh glides along mine. It lasts less than a second, but the brief contact is incendiary to my hormones, repeatedly firing my pleasure centres.

Clearly being in London and meeting someone who so effectively both winds me up and turns me on is too much for my hormones. I should shag him and get the highly inconvenient urges over with and show him, whether professionally or up close and personally, I’m up to any challenge. Perhaps with the exception of the heels already pinching my toes.

‘What do you love about your job?’

Him ignoring my out clause throws me, and I answer honestly. ‘Normally I relish the creative aspect of my work, helping clients tell the story they want the world to see, but I suspect this job will present extra...challenges.’ Kit-shaped challenges...

A small shake of his head—confident, assured, perceptive. ‘Someone with your industry experience, your awards, will have no problem with a short promotional video.’

So, he looked me up. Is he as thrown by meeting me as I am by him, despite myself? Heat pools low in my belly, its sweetness cut by the acidic taste on my tongue.

‘Usually my clients are as agreeable as your brothers. Tell me, why are you so rude? Is it just foreigners, or do you try to control everyone?’

For several protracted seconds, I assume he’s going to ignore my questions. We face off. His stare sparks flickers of flame. It’s not a look of dislike, and it curls my toes in his poncey, overpriced shoes.

‘Would it help if I apologise?’

I shrug through my surprise. ‘It might.’ I smooth my features into a mask of indifference. ‘But in some regards, it’s too late. You’ve already raised the stakes, thrown down an irresistible gauntlet.’ I lean in, holding his eye contact, breathing through the burn in my corneas at his proximity and the warm, masculine scent of him, which bathes me like a cloud. ‘Adrenaline is addictive.’

The car slows in evening traffic as we butt horns, but I’m barely aware of our surroundings. His sexual magnetism makes my heart thump in my throat. I like sex. Kit is sinfully hot. A plus B could equal a way to dispense with the potent pheromones and reset our working boundaries for this project. My eyes dance over his lips while I mull turning the nagging idea into a reality.

Kit frowns and changes the subject. ‘What did my brother tell you about me?’ He shoots me a hard look, as if defying me to lie or soften the truth.

I fight a smile and let him have it, right between the eyes. ‘That you’re difficult to work for, that you go through staff like you change your underwear and that I shouldn’t be intimidated by you.’

He stares, frozen and watchful, but it’s a look that makes me aware I’m braless beneath this ridiculous wisp of silk.

‘Are you?’ His index finger and thumb return to that lip. My nipples peak as if craving the same attention. My pulse thrums stronger, roaring in my ears.

Rule one of embracing fear—never admit weakness.

‘No.’

He leans closer, as if about to confide a secret while challenge dances in his eyes. I relax every muscle in my body, holding myself perfectly still.

‘Despite my rudeness?’ His smile is brittle, eyes glittering. This game of wills plays tug-of-war with my body—my heart rate spikes every time we make eye contact and the hard kernel of defiance I’m slave to infects my backbone, banishing any leeway I might have scraped together.

I hold the breath in my throat and shake my head. I was right about him—he too enjoys being proved correct, his uncompromising, forthright manner a front. Self-preservation.

I shrug. ‘Perhaps it’s a front.’

‘Perhaps I simply want things the way I want them, Mia.’ The conversation has morphed. We’re no longer talking about working together. And what do I care how he wants things, as long as he doesn’t try to control me?

There’s something beyond enticing about this man. My body twitches, fighting the urge to lean into him. To see those navy eyes close up. To taste the mouth he habitually toys with.

True to form, he releases another bombshell. ‘Did Reid tell you I lost my wife, Laura?’

His brutal statement squeezes my stomach and I suck in a short gasp. A torrent of questions forms in wake of the shock. How? When? Were they married long? Did they have children? It certainly explains his thorny barriers. But I have no interest in breaking those down.

And the perverse in me likes that he tries to jolt me with this intimate, intensely personal detail, likes that he uses what must be his darkest pain to test my mettle. Perhaps a last-ditch attempt to run me off or freak me out.

But it does the opposite, increasing his attractiveness tenfold. Because it seems I was wrong about him.

He is safe.

Unattainable. And clearly only interested in casual hook-ups. The likelihood we’ll turn the chemistry filling the car into something brief and physical increases.

‘No. But thanks for sharing—it helps to put things into perspective.’ The sooner we move past the physical, the sooner we can move on from it. The sooner I can get back to being me. ‘Look, I’m not intimidated by you. I just want to do my job.’

‘No, I see that. You’re...different, aren’t you? Is it a New Zealand thing?’

I fight my first reaction, rationalising that he probably didn’t mean it the way my defensive self-esteem interprets. ‘You’re forthright and...unconventional. It’s not an insult, so you can stop glaring at me.’ His index finger traces his bottom lip while he contemplates the conundrum sitting in his expensive car.

‘Because I can dish as much as I can take?’ I lift my chin. I won’t let him see how close to home his observation has struck. I’m a square peg. I reconciled this long ago. But here, in London, so near and yet so far from my biological roots...

I shiver, tingles of unease racing down my bare back. This is why relationships and I aren’t meant to be. I’m better alone, free to be myself without expectation or judgment... The tiny part of me clamouring for the validation of belonging stutters like a broken film reel, spliced out of sync.

I let him have the honesty he seems to value. ‘You’re rude, unprofessional and obnoxious. That is an insult.’ But even as the words leave my mouth I want his lips on mine, want more than verbal sparring with him, knowing that’s all it ever will be—brief, physical, no emotional entanglements. And, while locking horns with Kit makes my blood pound, I’m certain the sex would be an even better distraction.

He laughs, a genuine head-thrown-back bellow that vibrates into my bones. It’s short. Not long enough for me to fully appreciate the way pleasure transforms his handsome features, but enough to skyrocket my body temperature when he looks at me with a new layer of heat. ‘What shall we do with each other, then, Mia Abbott, as you seem determined to stick around, despite my obvious shortcomings?’

A hundred filthy replies pop into my head. I let him have the forthright and unconventional one he probably expects least. ‘Why don’t we get this...the sex...over and done with and move on to the job?’

Touché, Mr Straight-Talking...

I must imagine the flicker of excitement I see in his eyes, the one that turns my pulse into a roar of drumbeats, because it’s gone in a fraction of a second and his stare hardens, any trace of humour gone. ‘You don’t imagine I’m relationship material, do you?’

His arrogance shouldn’t astound me quite so much. If not for his extreme hotness, his obvious emotional unavailability and the desire to see him as undone as our chemistry renders me, I’d cut my losses and leave him to his floundering business and his boring night out at the theatre.

‘You don’t imagine I’ll fall for your tepid charm offensive, do you? I’ve never had a relationship and I’m not looking for one now.’ I shrug. ‘I’m practical. And as blunt as you. You’re single, I’m single. Neither one of us is interested in anything beyond sex. Let’s get it out of the way and then I can do my job and move on and you can go back to...’ I wave my finger in his general direction ‘...whatever this is.’

He’s silent for so long, I’m aware of every muted noise outside the car. The angry blare of a horn, the squeal of breaks, the electronic beep of a pedestrian crossing. Kit’s stare scours me like I’m under a giant microscope, and he’s cataloguing my nooks and crannies and the freakish antennae sprouting from my head.

But then his tongue swipes his bottom lip and I almost feel it between my legs. From the look in his eyes alone I’m achy and damp.

‘I bet you didn’t negotiate this into your contract with Reid and Drake.’ A small lip-curl hints at what must be a devastating full-blown smile I’ll probably never see. ‘Wednesday,’ he adds with a bitter twist to his mouth, his serious, intense stare pinning me to the leather upholstery.

‘What?’

‘If you’re still interested, I’ll fuck you Wednesday,’ he says. Like it’s a meeting he’s slotted into his busy schedule, before the gym and after a conference call.

Today is Monday.

My body can’t decide on an emotion, shunting between excitement, outrage and rampant curiosity. ‘Why Wednesday?’ A control thing? Just because he can pick and choose? Well, fuck that.

A defiant trickle of fire winds its way between the exposed bumps of my vertebrae—I’ll tell him Wednesday doesn’t work for me, but could I pencil him in for Friday? But my body betrays me, clamouring for the dark, all-consuming sex I’m guessing he delivers; desperate to have done with the distracting deluge of arousal every time I’m in his presence; determined to show him whatever he can dish, I can take.

‘Because that’s the way I want it.’ He leans closer, his navy stare tracing my parted lips and leaving the ghost of a kiss there. ‘You should know, I’ll be in control. I’ll call the shots. If that’s not your thing...’ Another cocky shrug that fans my body temperature off the scale. He thinks he has tomboy Mia all figured out.

‘You should know that’s dangerous talk in this day and age. Women are in charge of their own sexuality, Mr Faulkner.’ I’m aware I’m the one who brought up sex, and, despite his commanding promise and my rebuttal, my internal muscles clench at the idea of Kit controlling my pleasure. No one’s ever bossed me around in the bedroom before, and if I’d been asked prior to meeting the sinfully sexy Kit I’d have sworn on the life of my brother’s soon-to-be adopted child I’d tell him he could stick his sexual dominance up his tight, toned English backside.

But his offer comes laced with the hint of danger that whooshes the blood through my head in a rush. And I’m confident I can take him. I wonder how many times he’s used the I’ll call the shots line. I wonder if anyone ever turns the charmer down. I wonder if he used it on the late Mrs Faulkner, a woman whose legacy appears far-reaching, as if Kit literally drags it behind him like Marley’s chains.

That we’re negotiating sex like a cold, unemotional transaction isn’t romantic. But I don’t need romance. He’s started a chain reaction inside me, luring me towards the recklessness I crave.

Testing where his head is at, I say, ‘Or perhaps you’re trying to tame the wild girl, eh?’

Perhaps now would be a good time to tell him of my rebellious teens, my reputation as a wildcard...

Kit smiles but it’s feline. ‘You and your command of your sexuality brought this up, Ms Abbott. Just because I like things a certain way doesn’t mean I don’t respect your choices and your right to say no. I’m fully into mutual consent while we explore our mutual pleasure.’ His eyes dip to my mouth. ‘You can take it or leave it, Mia.’ His lips caress the phrase mutual pleasure like they’re already on my skin, my nipples, my clit.

I press my thighs together, stymieing the burn. My head screams one thing while my hormones stage an intervention.

But he’s also given me a bargaining chip. With a rush of exhaled air, I make my decision. I will take it, because Kit Faulkner turns me on more than anyone I’ve ever met. But more so, because I’m up to the challenge. Any challenge. Especially one where the boundaries are so clearly demarcated and the taste of victory already lingers on my tongue.

Kit wears the casual-sex-only vibe like some men wear overpowering cologne. He’s safe. I can concede to a few of his sexual demands without risk, but I have a stipulation of my own.

I shrug, while my blood pounds through my belly. ‘It’s all good—whatever your kink. But I have a condition too.’ My breathing accelerates, a chemical cocktail flooding my bloodstream.

He leans in, waiting, his lips parted and his midnight eyes dancing between mine.

I swallow, ensuring my voice will be clear and controlled when it emerges because the parts of me affected by the hormonal maelstrom inside jerk and jitter like chattering teeth. ‘You can call the shots sexually, but I want full creative direction over my work—no negotiations. No wasting my time or trying to influence the process, and no interfering.’

I wait, breath held in my throat while I stare him down.

Some sort of battle rages inside him—his nostrils flare, his eye actually twitches and his chest rises and falls, telling me he’s used to controlling every aspect of his life, including work. And now I’m burning with curiosity about his dead wife. What happened to her? Has it made Kit the way he is? It would destroy this fiercely controlled man to have such a momentous part of his life turned upside down.

Breath stutters back into my chest in a rush. In that moment I want to reach out to him, to kiss him, more than I want the oxygen that breath delivers to my gasping lungs. He’s the last thing I should want—his privileged, conventional lifestyle, his naturally demanding nature, his disregard for social pleasantries are warning bells rattling my skull.

But he’s safe.

The fact he’s still deeply and desolately in love with his wife is stamped all over him from the creases in the corners of his eyes to the tension he carries around his beautiful mouth and the control he seems desperate to exert on all areas of his life.

My scalp prickles as I wait. I fight the urge to climb into his lap and finish this now, today. Monday. Just to show him life, free will, is about choices. But losing his wife would have already taught him that harsh lesson and perhaps I simply want to watch him shed the battle-scarred armour, even for a few uninhibited seconds.

Wednesday might as well be next year. He’s ramped up my hormones tenfold by making me wait and now my anticipation is stretched taut.

We’re still staring, still breathing in unison, still flooding the space with a pheromone mix more potent than the spirits stocked in the car’s minibar.

I lick my parched lips. His eyes dance over the trail of my tongue.

I’m frozen, but every nerve in my body urges me to take the leap.

At the last second, his pupils dilate and we lunge in unison.

With a small growl his hands slide into my hair and he cups my face and pulls me onto his kiss. I meet him halfway, my hands gripping his shoulders as wave after wave of relief pounds through me.

He’s changed his mind.

We’ll dump the boring play, go back to his place and I can start work afresh tomorrow with this...inconvenient distraction nicely tucked away.

Done and dusted. Kit Faulkner put in his place. Back to being Mia.

His kiss is bold, open-eyed, almost defiant, but my body responds—muscles softening and heart rate accelerating, forcing heated blood around my arteries, delivering the hormones that allow me to ignore all the reasons fucking my kind-of boss isn’t a good idea.

Firm lips direct my mouth open. His tongue surges inside—sublime, possessive, unapologetic. As good as I’d guessed. I clasp his wrists, clinging on for dear life as I meet his stare, even though my corneas are on fire and my mind screams at me to close my eyes. To block out the carnal, almost cruel intensity in his eyes. As if kissing me today, a Monday, is a dare and he hates every second.

To compensate I kiss him like it’s my last second on earth, my mouth a frantic slide on his, my tongue a match for the duel of his, and then I suck on his bottom lip.

He pulls away, his stare savage, breath gusting across my face, and then drags my whole body into his lap, his fingers digging in and a hoarse grunt leaving his throat.

My blood surges, delivering the endorphins to every cell in my body. Perhaps we won’t make it back to his place. Perhaps we’ll finish this right here in the back of his fancy car before we make it to the Shaftesbury.

I straddle his lap and rise up over him to slant my mouth back over his. I was right about the hair. It’s silky and long enough to twist between my fingers. But I don’t get to enjoy it for long because he grips my wrists and directs them behind my back with firm, insistent pressure that tells me he’s a man of his word. He wants to control this... Well, he can try.

I continue to plunder his mouth as he traps both my hands in one of his, and then his other hand is at my breast, kneading and tweaking and making me moan loudly enough to alert our driver, who sits behind the privacy screen, of what is afoot.

Kit pulls on my wrists, breaking the contact between our frenzied mouths. His stare is almost black with desire, a wildness dancing there that steals my breath and banishes any residual hesitation I have for wanting him.

I do.

Desperately.

Now.

He dips his head and his mouth covers my breast, through the fabric of the silk dress that probably cost him more than my flight around the world.

He’s not gentle. His lips clamp my nipple, pulling and tugging while his tongue flicks at the nub. I cry out, the sensation burrowing deep into my belly, sending pulses of fire between my legs.

I knew the second I walked into his office things would be good between us. Just like I intuited his emotional unavailability. Kit oozes distance from every pore. Emotionally, we’re as distant as the countries we come from. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need the trappings.

His free hand skims my thigh as he leans back on the seat, holding me prisoner a short distance away from his mouth, which I want back on me. My breast, my lips, anywhere that helps to slake the burning need he’s unleashed so effortlessly.

‘Is this what you want?’ The bulge at the front of his trousers tells me he wants it too, despite the harshness of his tone. Despite his stupid Wednesday rule.

‘Yes.’ I’ve never been more turned on in my life. Perhaps it’s the dress and the glamour of Kit’s London and limo. Perhaps it’s a comedown from the elevated adrenaline I’ve suffered since my plane touched down in this foreign city, a place I’m tied to through family, both biological and real. Perhaps it’s just Kit, as sexy as sin in his tux—impersonal, unreachable, the ultimate in temptation.

With an impatient grunt, he slides his fingers between my legs. His hooded eyes command my stare, which wants to hide from his brooding, detached perusal. But a pulse hammers in his neck, he’s steel between my legs and his chest works hard, I suspect to stave off a similar light-headedness to that currently rendering me incoherent.

‘Fuck. No underwear?’ He probes my slickness, this time with a gentleness I’d have denied he was capable of two minutes ago.

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