Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“The Aston?” As I’d opened the door, I’d noticed it parked on the street in a space reserved for me. “You’ll get a ticket. It’s permit parking only.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?”
I rub a hand across my jaw as though contemplating when, in reality, what I’m trying hard to do is ignore the lock of hair that, between the front door and the lift, has escaped from the mass piled on top of her head. It’s fucking mesmerizing, curling like a temptation to touch. To pull. Such a tactile pleasure. “I’d ask if it drives well, but I already know it does.” I try not to inhale too deeply because fucking orange blossoms. It’s how her hair had smelled, spread across the pillow like a soft cloud.
“Exactly.” The word explodes with laughter as she almost throws up her hands in the small space. “Niko.” She steps closer, pressing her hand to the center of my chest. “A car is a very grand gesture, but I can’t for the life of me work out why it was delivered to my place of work last week.”
“How does the saying go?” My eyes lift from her hand, finding her gaze so blue but not guileless. “You won it fair and square.”
“Did I?”
“I don’t remember you kissing me.” Somehow, we’ve moved closer, and my hand is cupping her hip. “I know I would’ve remembered.” It would’ve been part of my dreams, my memories, stored in that part of me that still hears her soft cries. Still remembers how delicate her wrists had felt.
“We did a lot more than kiss.” My eyes dip to the temptation of her heart-shaped lips. “I thought you were avoiding me.” Her words are soft. They should be tempting, yet they feel like a deluge of cold water.
“I was.” I step back, and her hand slides down my chest. “I am.”
“Because of Alexander.” Not a question. More of an unhappy statement of fact as the elevator squeaks and judders to a stop. One statement of fact. There are other reasons.
“Come. Let me get you a drink.” I pull on the cage door and help her out, opening the door to the living area of the penthouse apartment.
“It’s lovely,” she says, taking in the neutral colors and the expansive use of glass. Her gaze slides to the terrace and the view of London beyond. Roofs, chimneys, and skeletal treetops, church spires standing like sentinels in the distance.
“I prefer it up here. It’s quieter.”
“And such gorgeous views.” She turns to face me. “I confess, it’s not at all like I’d imagined it would be.”
A tiny bubble of pleasure explodes in my chest. She’s been thinking about where I live, meaning she’s been thinking about me. Gratifying, I think with a quiet exhale. And impossible.
“Drink?” I make my way over to the kitchen, and she follows. “Tea? Coffee? Something stronger. It’s nearly five o’clock, after all.” This is such a Western concept. No Russian I know ever asked themself the time before pouring a vodka.
“Water, please.” I round the island, putting a sea of dark granite between us.
“Ah, yes. I forgot you were driving.”
“Actually, I will have that drink.” As she unravels her scarf, her words are a touch combative. “I did drive here, but I’ll be leaving on foot.”
“Then expect that parking fine. Wine? Something stronger?”
“Wine, please. White, if you have it.”
I pull a decent bottle of Pinot Grigio from the wine cooler under the kitchen island, then grab a couple of glasses from the cabinet. Meanwhile, Isla slides off her cardigan to reveal the kind of blouse that exposes nothing but hints at everything. She slides onto a stool and catches me staring.
“Yes?”
“That’s a pretty blouse.”
Her eyes dip briefly, her expression pleased. “Thank you. I made it. It’s a hobby of mine.”
She certainly knows how to highlight her assets. The hint of cleavage, full and soft. The slope of her shoulder, and I’m staring again. “Just a hobby?” I ask, uncorking the bottle.
“At the minute. I thought you didn’t drink.”
“Would you prefer to drink alone?” Pouring a little into a glass, I slide it her way.
Her expression flickers, a sort of, fair enough. “If you don’t want to get to know me because of your friendship with my brother,” she says as she grasps her glass by the long stem, “how do you think I’ll explain why I’m driving around in your car?”
“I’m not sure he ever saw it,” I answer, ignoring her euphemistic delivery. “I’ve only owned it a week or so.”
“You gave me a week-old Aston Martin?”
“I didn’t give it to you.” Pulling the other glass closer, I splash a little into the bowl. “You won it in a wager.”
“That’s just silly. Seriously silly.” Her glass clinks against the countertop, her arm dropping heavily to the marble. “You realize this is the twenty-first century, don’t you? That my brother isn’t the guardian of my chastity?”