Naughty Brits: An Anthology

by Sarah MacLean

  Quietly, dangerously, she said, “That is not what you should have told me.”

  Daniel dropped into a crouch. His hands opened, pleading. “If I’d said I worked for Pella, it would have changed everything.”

  “Not as much as it does now.”

  His anxious press of lips was so beautiful, Elspeth wanted to touch his jaw, where he needed a shave, and she knew how good that rough skin felt, so she imagined telling him to undo his pants and—

  Closing her eyes, she said, “It’s too late.”

  “It can’t be. There must be something I can do, Elspeth, because I love you.”

  “Those words aren’t a weapon!” she cried. She stood and went to the window, pressing her hand to the cold glass. Heat spread like a ghost around her fingers. Blurring out London and the clouds.

  “I don’t have any weapons,” he said, standing, but staying back. “Not when it comes to you. I want you, and I know I should have told you. I should have done a lot of things. But after that first day, I didn’t want to risk what we had. I’d lose you, and I’ve never wanted to keep someone this badly.”

  Leaning in, Elspeth put her forehead to the glass. She believed him. Her chest ached, her heart ached, because she believed him. She turned around, pressing her whole body against the window. Showing him how far away she needed to be. “But you don’t respect me,” she said. “If you did, you’d have told me who you work for.”

  Daniel shook his head. “You’re wrong. I didn’t tell you that because I’m a selfish bastard, not because I don’t know you’re amazing. You gave up so much for your family, you not only ran your business, but expanded—and dragged the whole village in. You have everyone’s respect, Elspeth, not only mine. Everyone’s. That’s why they love you, and want you to be happy. And why I do.”

  “You cannot make me happy,” she said, translating the line from a tragic opera. A hard aria of refusal. Elspeth swallowed. “There’s no such thing as no matter what. It’s over.”

  Another knock sounded at the door.

  “That’s my wine. Let them in, would you, and then go.”

  “Elspeth . . .”

  “You used to pretend to like doing what I told you to do, so—so do it now.” Elspeth went into the bedroom and sat on the chair beside the gilded vanity. She was shaking.

  The knock came again. She listened. He moved too quietly, but there was his dark voice at the door, thanking the attendant, tipping him, and then . . . the door closed.

  She breathed too hard, waiting, listening carefully. She prayed he was gone, but hoped, like a fool, that he’d stayed.

  After a moment, Elspeth went into the sitting room. The wine service waited, elegant, silver, and so very lonely.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There was no part of Daniel ready to play the charming American businessman for three hours at the British Museum, chatting about corporate nonsense and keeping to the yes, Pella is expanding into world-improvement party line. Usually he got through these things by flirting with literally everyone, from hot arm-candy to retired board members and everyone in between. There was even a movie star here tonight. After all, nobody hated being flirted with by a man who looked as good in a tux as Daniel Kelly, regardless of marital status or position on the sexuality spectrum.

  Trouble was, tonight he didn’t want to flirt, and had no backup strategy.

  Everything running in the background turned back to Elspeth Elspeth Elspeth. How to win her back, when to try to see her again, how long did she need, where would she go, was there an Ordnance Survey somewhere he could study to build a road back to her?

  Daniel was a goddamn wreck.

  Harcourt and Godfrey had unpleasantly double-teamed him until he agreed to give a damned speech—just the basic thank you folderol, Godfrey said with a hand wave, and Harcourt frowned as he added, but make it sexy in the stuffiest possible way.

  Valiantly refusing whiskey until after he talked, Daniel mingled with a single flute of champagne for the meet-and-greet portion of the evening. He’d never been to the British Museum before, and had to admit the massive party space and clean white walls were like the inner keep of a brilliant modern castle. The gala curved around the tower of the Reading Room, elegant tall tables decorated with pomegranates and ruffled flowers, and the lighting was warm orange and reddish, projecting oak leaves against the tower in falling motion that was mesmerizing if he stared too long while the brittle old woman in sequins with whom he was currently discussing something about tariffs went off on a tangent.

  For a while Harcourt hustled him around, made him talk about the US side of Pella, and how smoothly the transitions had gone when Pella incorporated Kelly Pharma six years ago. Daniel wanted to remind everyone he’d been in fucking Anbar at the time, so it was all hearsay to him anyway.

  He thought he saw Elspeth at least eight times.

  It was the red-orange lights, surely, casting auburn shadows on every upswept bun or messy fall of curls.

  He’d give anything for it to actually be her. She’d like the Lilah Rose photographs on display, most of which had the same kind of intimacy as the ones hanging on the wall at The Fort. Maybe she’d come—he knew Harcourt had invited her, but couldn’t bring himself to ask the old man what she’d said. If she’d refused, it would only be because she hated him, and just the thought soured the champagne in his stomach.

  When he was finally introduced to the stage by a dangerous-looking archeologist with broad shoulders, Daniel set his empty flute down and put on a minimal-watt smile. “Thanks for the intro,” he said, leaning into the mic. The only pure light in the room glared hotly on him. He looked out, ready to cast a net of charm so it wouldn’t matter what he actually said.

  The entire place stared at him, gleaming eyes and rainbows of evening gowns, gray-black-blue suits and tuxes stock-still, with the servers silently moving among it all. Daniel’s heart rate increased for no good reason. He got started.

  “Pella started in 1863, not nearly old enough to have a place in this museum,” he said. “But my family’s company, Kelly Pharmacy, is even younger—though by American standards, we’re ancient. Nearly a whole century since my great-grandfather founded it.” He gave a quick few lines about the history of his family, and how the merger with Pella came about—the official version, having only to do with progress. Then he said, “So it really depends on who you’re talking to whether something is old or new, exciting or dull. That’s why perspective alone can make an endeavor worthwhile, and motivation drives progress. For a while, Kelly Pharma and Pella were motivated by science, agricultural politics, and, let’s not forget, making money.” He grinned, and was rewarded by scattered laughter. “But part of our integration has been coming to understand that the world itself has problems that only people with motivation, perspective, and resources can fix—or we’re all doomed. Pella Group is dedicated to making sure we aren’t doomed. And we’re thrilled to have opportunities like this to create space for intellectual debate and scientific investigation into new ways to push worldwide agriculture with a real eye toward sustainability.”

  Applause interrupted him, and he paused.

  That’s when he saw her.

  It was really her this time, not a phantom with red-glinting hair.

  She’d come.

  Elspeth stood beside one of the tall tables in a dark blue jumpsuit with a plunging neckline that hugged her glorious breasts and pinched in at her waist, falling in velvety lines over her round hips. Her bare shoulders were strong and pale, her neck was encircled by layers of sparkling chains he wanted to rip off to see her throat, to put his tongue there in worship.

  Curls tumbled around her face, pinned up somehow, and worst of all, she was looking right at him with her big eyes. Not happy, not angry, not anything of passion. She looked devastated.

  Daniel missed his cue as the applause faded, staring like he’d never seen beauty in his life, and every piece of him insisted he leap off the dais and go to her, take her awa
y and make her have him. If he had to devour her inch by inch to do it.

  He wasn’t breathing right.

  From two feet away, he heard Harcourt hiss his name.

  Swallowing, Daniel gave the crowd his smile again, though his ears rang.

  She was here.

  “I . . .” he started, and it hung there, and shit, soon they’d all think he was drunk or an idiot.

  He was one of those things.

  Daniel’s smile tilted, he felt the protection of it, his old cocked smile, and he said, “Only yesterday, Pella closed a deal to put down a new kind of local roots, on a much smaller than usual scale. But as you know, sometimes the best endeavors must start off with a seed. There’s a village called Caerafon, about five hours’ drive from here, in northern Wales. They’re doing incredible work to open up old traditions and make way for innovation in small business. Farm-to-table initiatives, the kind only neighbors can arrange, people in a community who know what they need, who know what their land needs. So they’re working with clean energy like those mountains deserve, and being as rebellious as I’ve recently learned the Welsh could always be when it comes to invaders. Invaders like me.”

  Below him, Elspeth started to back away.

  “I met a woman,” he said, looking right at her. “A woman not only trying to do everything for her family, her village, her land, but succeeding. And she taught me something about sustainability. It’s a word we throw around a lot, but this woman, Elspeth Gwenlan, helped me see that you have to understand who you are in order to know how you fit into your community, or how you can make a better world. You have to face who you are before you can give best. And you have to understand who others are and what makes them special. Because real sustainability isn’t going to be about any of the things we—Pella—already bring to the table. Perspective, motivation, and resources. It’s going to be about figuring out what part we all can play in the future, the part that fits us best, and then fitting ourselves into the wider world, making it our mission to keep those connections—our relationships—with each other and the land—the planet—strong.”

  It was a mess, not what he’d intended to say at all.

  Daniel shook his head. The speech didn’t matter. Only Elspeth mattered. “This woman, I didn’t tell her I had a stake in whether or not she sold her pub, her life, to Pella and let us come in to transform her village, our reputation. Change her life. I didn’t tell her because the moment I saw her, I knew nothing about what I was mattered. She was gonna make her own future, and that was . . . spectacular. Who I thought I was, what I thought I wanted, that was irrelevant. She was constant. Real. You showed me who I can be, Elspeth.” He laughed. It wasn’t a fake laugh, built for charm, but the kind of soft, real laugh he couldn’t hold back, the resulting chemical reaction to a truth he’d just realized. “You showed me who I want to be. That’s like the refrain to a song, and you probably know it. I don’t. If I did, I’d sing it right now, in front of all these people.” He stepped back and spread his arms.

  Elspeth shook her head. Don’t.

  “I won’t, beautiful.” Daniel glanced at Harcourt, who was blotchy red in the face. “Anyway, thanks for coming, enjoy the champagne—we have a lot to celebrate tonight.”

  With that, he strode down the shallow steps and away from the dais.

  By the time he reached the table where she’d been, Elspeth was gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Elspeth grabbed another flute of champagne from a tray of them perfectly balanced on the hand of a harried young server. She drank a third of it in one go, and nearly burped outrageously. She’d forgotten it was champagne.

  Blinking her eyes at the discomfort, she kept moving—more like mincing—in her high heels. The soles were too slick for this expansive marble floor and dreamy red-shadow light. Daniel’s voice had heated her body, turning her nipples and spine traitors. But that one word, constant, the thing he’d said to her at the castle, that’s the word that took a detour along the way from her ears to her pussy, and encircled her heart.

  Maybe her heart was a traitor, too.

  Elspeth should’ve run straight out the entryway and hailed a taxi. Mum would understand, even if she and Kam had been having a good time. Mum knew what Daniel had done. She’d know that speech was just words, they didn’t change anything. Couldn’t.

  Somebody else was giving a speech now, and she closed her eyes with relief at the nasal voice. She leaned against the dark information desk, sipping her champagne.

  There she remained, until the speeches ended and a floor was cleared for dancing. The crowd shifted, and an old crooner came over the speakers. Elspeth knew she should move, or he’d find her.

  Heading toward the Mesopotamian floor, she set her flute down. She’d be fine if she could only hide, or find somebody else, somebody hotter, to dance with.

  The song changed.

  She recognized “Voi che sapete” from The Marriage of Figaro.

  It was not dancing music.

  But it was the Mozart she’d sung for him that first day at the burial chamber.

  Elspeth froze. Her eyes closed and she recalled so vividly the cold air on her flushed cheeks, her pulsing, post-orgasmic core, her rising hope, and Daniel’s dark eyes.

  Just thinking of it filled her with longing—and made her wet.

  She listened to the entire song there at the edges of the crowd, knowing when she turned he’d be there. Knowing it. And while she stood still, not turning, she felt something she hadn’t felt in years: stage fright.

  Not the sweaty, nightmare kind, but the good, necessary thrill of fear at what-ifs and possibilities. The tension just before the curtain rose, just before she found out if she could do it this time, if she’d startle or cough or go sharp. It was the best feeling, one she and others at school had chased. Without it, performances fell flat or drifted into rote submission. A commanding performance required friction inside.

  Oh God, she had it now. Friction aplenty.

  Elspeth swallowed, and turned.

  Daniel smiled with extreme solicitude. Then he bowed very slightly, and in his perfect tux, he was irresistible.

  She drifted to him, took his hand, and he swept her onto the dance floor.

  The music was back to crooning. Smooth jazz, with piano and steel brushes. George Michael. “Kissing a Fool.”

  Elspeth felt a wave of relief at identifying the song, as if knowing its name put her on even ground. Despite the subject matter. Then Daniel pulled her into his arms.

  Her body pressed his, and the loose trousers of her jumpsuit flared around her ankles. She let her fingers slip along his hairline, and he leaned in. It was all right. She’d be all right.

  There—Mum was dancing with Kam, and they’d shifted nearer. Mum gave her big-eyes, but Elspeth shook her head. In the slipping reddish lights, she saw her mum’s smile curl with a little hope.

  Elspeth closed her eyes. Her feelings were a mess, but her body knew what it wanted.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here,” Daniel murmured, voice rumbling from his chest to hers. Indecently. She loved it. “But I’m glad you are.”

  “Your speech was a lot of bullshit,” she whispered.

  “Not all of it. Not the important parts.”

  “Sustainability is important.”

  “Not like you are.”

  Elspeth sighed into him. She put her cheek to his jaw, letting the whole length of her brush against him, and she felt it: he was hard.

  He wove their fingers together, and as they moved—she shouldn’t be surprised he was a good dancer—he pushed against her, backed away, spun her, pulled her back in, and slid his hand around her waist, finally pressing her firmly against him. It was delicious.

  Elspeth rolled her hips a little, and in the dim red shadows of the dance floor, dragged her hand from his shoulder, down his chest, past the form-fitting cummerbund, and pressed it between them. She grabbed his cock and let go.

  “Christ,” he
whispered.

  She was ruining her knickers. Her very nice knickers, and the under-armor pressing her into the shape she’d needed for this jumpsuit. The lace cupping her breasts could hardly even be called a bra, and she wanted him to see it, wanted to see him see it.

  Why shouldn’t she take what she wanted? He certainly had.

  “Come with me,” she said, leaning in to lick his jawline.

  Then she let go and walked away.

  Elspeth was trembling.

  If she did this, it would mean something: she couldn’t give herself this and then let him go.

  She stopped.

  Daniel’s hands landed gently on her shoulders, and he held her without pressing close. “Forgive me,” he murmured.

  When she moved on again he slid one hand down her arm and offered it to her. She let their fingers play together, walking close, too close together, and she ducked around a corner. Their footsteps echoed. They passed three people with champagne flutes looking at the Rosetta Stone, continued on, and Elspeth ducked left past sandstone griffons, into a long empty hall with nothing but ancient reliefs on the wall, meters and meters of them. She pulled Daniel on, her pulse picking up speed, a counterpoint to the tattoo of her heels on the stone floor. She turned again, onto tiles in a sea-foam green room with more reliefs and only very dim lighting.

  “Here.” Elspeth stopped, squeezing his hand. She turned and kissed him, arms sliding around his waist.

  Daniel sighed into her, hands finding her ass. He pulled her tight.

  She nudged past his lips, tasting the full flavor of heat and champagne on his tongue. Her body tingled, burned, with need and racing nerves. Her breath thinned and she nipped at his mouth, dragged her hands up his chest to his hair and held his head, fingernails digging. Daniel groaned and Elspeth arched her back, her breasts to his chest. Her heels put her center right over his, and she rubbed against his cock, her belly tight. Oh, this was dangerous, thrilling. She shivered and pushed harshly back from him.