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
