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.
