“You didn’t desert her!” He retorted with a shake of his head.
“It’s a small act of kindness that costs me nothing,” Finn was concise.
Caradoc didn’t say anything else on the matter, but her insistence had surprised him. No, perhaps it wasn’t her insistence so much as her sweetness in the first place.
“You’ve lived here for a few years, I think you said,” he prompted, reaching over to unhook Finn’s weekender bag from her shoulder.
“Yeah.”
“Why here?”
She smiled nostalgically. “I wanted to be near my dad. He’s only about a mile away. I can walk to him when I want to. Plus, this is where I grew up.”
“And you’ve never wanted to spread your wings? To live somewhere new and different?”
“Not really.” She wrinkled her nose in a way that Caradoc found distractingly youthful. “I mean, sure, the idea of travelling is appealing, but this is my home. I have too much here to just abandon it.”
“Such as?”
“Friends,” she shrugged. “History. The entire fabric of my life is here. Where I went to school, where I had my first kiss, where I learned karate, where I learned to drive.” She lifted a few of the envelopes off the hallstand as they passed, leaving any that weren’t urgent for attention at a later date.
“I’ve never felt that way about anywhere.”
“I can tell,” she teased, pulling the door inwards. “I mean, I can’t imagine it, though. You grew up in New York, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“And you still live there.”
His grimace was unintentional. “My New York is vastly different to the city I grew up in, believe me.”
“How?” And suddenly she wished they were in a candlelit restaurant rather than the decidedly utilitarian stairwell of her apartment.
Caradoc didn’t know how to answer, but he knew he’d been about to. Seraphina had an unnerving habit of removing all of his reserve, and all it took was a look from those clear green eyes and a simple question.
“You’ll see,” he said finally. “Come on. You said we wouldn’t be long.”
“Right, sorry,” she mumbled, feeling like an inconvenience suddenly. “Caradoc,” she shifted her weight to the other foot and let the cold, cold afternoon slap her with a welcome dose of reality. “I don’t have to come, you know. If you’re having second thoughts …”
His laugh was a sound of rich disbelief. “Because I don’t want to talk about all the ways my life now differs to my childhood?”
“Yeah,” she shook her head. “No. I don’t know. I mean, at Bagleyhurst this kind of made a weird sort of sense. But now that we’re back here, I don’t know. I mean, your real life is waiting for you.”
He narrowed his eyes speculatively. “I asked you to come with me.”
“And I’m saying that you don’t have to go through with it. You don’t owe me anything.”
His temper was fraying. “Jesus, Finn, do I seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t know what he wants?”
She bit down on her lower lip but didn’t speak.
“Do I seem like a guy who would put up with someone’s company just because I didn’t want to come off as rude?”
“No,” she said finally.
“Then get that gorgeous butt of yours into the car.”
Still, she felt a sense of unease as she slid into the passenger seat. He’d insisted on driving from Bagleyhurst despite her protestations.
“I’m hired to do this,” she had pointed out stubbornly.
“Not any longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t mix my personal life with my professional. I’ve never slept with someone in my employ.”
“Until me,” she pointed out, not willing to relinquish her grip on the keys.
“Until you,” he agreed thoughtfully.
“Then it’s a time for firsts.” Her heart turned over, and she knew it was with hope and speculation. Hope that he felt what she did – a curious brimming over of expectation and hope.
His eyes were smiling, but his word was gruff. “Keys.”
She had let him drive in the end because she’d secretly found him hotter than ever when behind the wheel of the luxury vehicle. He drove it like he drove her, without any visible effort, his control and finesse were excellent. Even these streets, around her home, he seemed to navigate expertly, steering them towards City airport.
“Do you need anything from your apartment here?” She asked belatedly, when they were already well past a convenient route to reach it.
He kept his eyes on the road. “The staff will pack up my effects.” As though he was some kind of fourth-in-line-to-the-throne royal, and he had an army of servants to do his bidding. Which, she was coming to realise, he did.
“And my car?” She asked, her eyes wide as she realised it had completely escaped her attention.
“I’ve contacted your agency. Another driver is coming for it.”
Just like that. The wheels had been greased; Caradoc had spoken.
Finn had expected that they’d travel first class. Nothing about Caradoc seemed to suggest that he’d enjoy sitting in coach, with a seven year old’s feet kicking his chair back.
But she hadn’t expected the private jet that bore the Moore Industries emblem on the side in enormous gold and black writing.
Nor had she ever, in her wildest fantasies, thought about conjuring up the kind of comfort that the jet offered. From seats that were designer leather, all space age and deep, there was a glossy table with a chandelier hung perfectly above it, and thick cream carpet. The flight from London to New York was not long, but when Finn had let a small yawn escape, Caradoc had shepherded her into a bedroom that rivalled any she’d ever seen.
She’d slept, and arrived in New York in the height of luxury. They were chauffeured into Manhattan, and whisked to the very top of a steel sky rise that bordered Central Park. She was on the other side of the coin now; the passenger not the driver, and the luxurious world was not one she was sure she could get used to. Which was just as well, as she was only on holiday in this rarefied place. Visiting, nothing more.
His apartment was more like a three story mansion in the sky. She stared at the bedroom that was at least twice the size of the flat she shared with two others, and then over the mezzanine to the spacious lounge beneath. Manhattan was an intricate web of concrete beyond the heavily tinted windows, and the sun was dipping low in the sky, casting orange and purple over the glass and steel monoliths.
Caradoc appeared as if from nowhere and her chest seemed to erupt with a burst of pure happiness.
The thought strangled her with its suddenness. Happiness? Happiness compared to what? It was a dangerous concept. She didn’t want to prod it too deeply. After all, she’d been happy for years. She was basically a happy person. No man, no matter how good he was in bed, could change the essential makeup of her character.
“Here you are.” His voice was soft; a caress from behind. She spun around, wondering about the guilty sense that flashed through her central nervous system.
“This is quite some place.”
His smile was sexy as he wrapped his arms around her waist. “Yes,” he agreed, padding a thumb across her spine, his eyes heavy on her face as her skin flushed at the touch. “And I’ve been wanting to see you in it all day.”
She frowned at the strange statement. “It’s huge,” she said, simply so that she could fill the silence.
“I barely notice the size now.”
“How is that possible?” She murmured, lifting her hands to his chest. Her fingers splayed wide and she could feel his heart beating beneath her touch.
“It’s just … somewhere I spend time.” His brow furrowed a little.
“I imagine your whole world is made up of places like this. And that apartment in London.”
He nodded. “More or less.”
“I heard … I heard somewhere that you did
all this yourself. Without your father’s help or money. Or even his name.”
Something sparked in Caradoc’s eyes. “Did you?”
She nodded, her throat dry. “Is it true?”
“Does it matter?”
She stifled her impatience. “Not especially. I’m just … interested.” Her fingers ran over the cool fabric of his suit. “You’ve changed. You’re dressed up.”
She stepped back so that she could regard him properly, and the effect sent her pulse skittering. She bit down on her lower lip as her clear green eyes moved slowly over his body. The suit was exceptional; it fitted as though it had been stitched to his frame. And perhaps it had been. It was the perfect shade to compliment his olive skin, and it highlighted the strength of his size. His feet wore black shoes that glistened in the soft glow of the apartment. He smelled of success and the woods.
“Do you like what you see?” His tone was laced with teasing mockery.
Embarrassed, her eyes flew to his face. “You’re going somewhere,” she said. She’d been staring shamelessly. Well? How could she not?
“We’re going somewhere,” he corrected with a laugh.
“Oh.” Disappointment warred with curiosity. “Where?”
Another small laugh. “You’d rather stay in?”
God, was she so obvious? She shook her head, but her eyes were enormous. He put his hands on her hips and stared down at her earnestly. Her skin was clear like warm candle wax and her lips were perfect rose buds. His gut clenched as the sun pierced the tinted glass of his penthouse and cast a perfect angel halo around her. It did not, he noticed with wry amusement, reach him, despite their proximity.
Well, that made perfect sense. She was an angel, and he was her counterpart.
“I … don’t mind,” she said huskily.
He linked his fingers with hers. “Come with me.”
Her heart turned over and immediately desire formed a crashing tsunami in her system. In her whole life, she wasn’t sure she would ever get enough of this man. And yet she didn’t have a lifetime to enjoy him. She had a week. It was the very end of the cliff top and she wouldn’t think about the day when she had to step off it.
She followed him, barely noticing the luxury that surrounded them as they went. The paintings by renowned masters, sculptures that would have looked at home in the grand gallery of the Louvre. And yet despite that, there was an overwhelming sense of sterility.
Perhaps it was the absence of personality that became more and more obvious as they moved. The lack of photographs, the lack of personal effects, the lack of signs that this man – Caradoc Moore – spent time here. And yet he was such a force, a being of earthly elements, how had he managed to live in this penthouse without leaving any impression of himself?
She didn’t want to think, as they entered the bedroom, about how many other women he’d brought here. His past was his, and it had nothing to do with what they felt for one another.
Caradoc’s expression was impossible to interpret as he began to unbutton her simple white blouse. He discarded it on the foot of the bed and then turned his attention to her pants.
His fingers were cool on her warm skin; goose bumps danced over her flesh as he removed her pants, leaving her standing in the middle of the room dressed in only underwear.
Ridiculously, she was self-conscious suddenly. His apartment was so perfect. Everything about it was art-gallery worthy, including Caradoc, who could have passed for a top model. And then there was her. Seraphina was neither perfect nor did she aspire to be. She tilted her chin in an angle of defiance, wishing she could silence the thoughts that were ravaging her soul.
“I have wondered about this,” he said thickly, stepping away from her reluctantly and crossing to a sliding timber door. He disappeared for a brief moment and then returned with a panther-like gait and eyes that shone.
But Finn’s eyes were drawn to what he held in his hand.
It was an evening gown. But it was … magical.
“What is that?” She whispered, and her feet glided over the floor of their own accord so that she met him in the middle of the room.
“This is what you will wear tonight.”
“It’s … stunning.” And not at all what she would have imagined Caradoc might select for her, if indeed she’d imagined him choosing her clothes at all. The dress was the same shade of green as her eyes, vibrant and mossy. In style, it was similar to a traditional wedding gown, with a fitted bodice and sweetheart neckline that plumed at the waist into a full, floor-length skirt. There were acres and acres of tulle beneath it. Finn ran her hand over the soft fabric with a sense of awe.
But whose dress was it? Her eyes narrowed. Had he chosen it for her, or just pulled it from the wardrobe of a past lover? Or worse, an ex-wife? Her cheeks drained of all colour. Or a current wife?
“Where did it come from?”
His expression showed bemusement. “A shop.” And to highlight his point, he fingered the still-attached price tag.
Finn couldn’t help seeing the amount on display and it almost doubled her over. Did people really pay that much for a dress? It was more than her first car had cost, by a factor of five. Then again, that old Jaguar had been a labour of love – an elegant creature that had been ignored and mistreated, that she and her dad had coaxed lovingly back to life.
“It’s beautiful,” she said honestly. “I don’t understand how you have it here.”
“Do you need to?” He murmured, crouching down and holding the dress for Finn to stand in to.
Despite her misgivings, the dress had a power all of its own. She couldn’t resist. She moved her feet through the opening and, as Caradoc eased it gently up her body, she felt like Cinderella. Except Caradoc was no fairy godmother.
He zipped the back deftly, and she squashed the traitorous thought that he seemed too familiar with the anatomy of a dress such as this. Caradoc stepped backwards to study her and then disappeared again. He retuned with two boxes. One was clearly shoes, and the other was black velvet.
“I brought my own shoes. They’ll be fine.”
He placed the black velvet box on the foot of the bed and then opened the shoe box. “Let’s see about that, Cinderella,” he echoed her earlier thoughts with such clarity that Finn startled. The shoes were, of course, in a different league to anything she owned. They were a rose gold, and she recognised the name from the pages of Vogue magazine.
“Well?” He asked softly, collecting the final box once more.
“Well,” she said with a shrug. There was a mirror behind him, and in it she caught a glimpse of her reflection. Was that really her?
“Finally,” he said, handing the black rectangle to her with a lack of ceremony that sat at odds with his degree of preparation. Her fingers trembled as she opened it, and the sight of diamonds and emeralds inside made her chest squeeze. “This isn’t real?”
Caradoc’s expression was droll. “What do you think?”
“I think … it’s beautiful, but way too much.”
“It’s just enough,” he assured her with the sort of complacent arrogance that convinced her she was just the last in a long line of women he’d treated to a similarly awe-inspiring seduction. It was all too easy for him.
He was suave, he was like an American James Bond, only without the gun and enemies lurking at every corner.
“Where are we going?” She couldn’t take her eyes off her appearance.
“My mother’s birthday.”
Her eyes flew to his face. “Oh, Caradoc. No.” She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can,” he said, as though her objection was of little importance.
“Seriously, no. I don’t belong there.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a family thing,” she said weakly.
“You’ve spent the last week in my bed. You’ve become some kind of idol to Maddie. You don’t think you’ve already crossed that line?”
Whatever did he mean? A
nd how did he feel about that? She squeezed her eyes shut, mortified to imagine that perhaps she’d been pushing herself on him and intruding.
“Stop over-thinking everything,” he demanded wearily. “I live and die by my decisions, and still I make them in a fraction of the time you do! Why can you not let your impulses rule? It will be a night of food, wine, dancing and life. Believe me, Finn, after the last week, I want nothing more than to feel alive.”
He didn’t say that one thought that had been niggling at him all day – never had he felt so alive than when holding Seraphina in his arms. He couldn’t acknowledge the thought because it absolutely terrified him, and Caradoc Moore was not a man to live in fear.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sasha Moore – she used the surname despite the fact she’d been remarried several times, most recently to a Bollywood actor – was the very definition of glamour. She was celebrating her sixtieth birthday but she could easily have been mistaken for Caradoc’s sister rather than his mother. Her hair was a glossy, sunflower blonde, and her flesh was golden all over.
Outside, snow threatened the skies of Manhattan, but inside the five star hotel, it was warm and cosy. The room wasn’t filled. It was an elegant gathering of perhaps eighty acquaintances, rather than a mad crush of revellers. Each and every one of the women wore dresses similar to Finn’s – expensive, and with so much fabric that they made whoosh, whoosh noises as they walked. With a few notable exceptions of course. There was a handful of women wearing very little at all – two of them she recognised from one of those fly-on-the-wall reality shows where spoilt rich kids spend time with the plebs of society and attempted to blend in.
Seraphina had always found such a concept to be endlessly demeaning and insulting, and she made sure to avoid getting caught in the same circle of conversation.
Sasha was, as one might expect, the centre of attention. Her gown was gold and jewelled, and figure-hugging to her knees, where it kicked out like a mermaid’s tale.
“She’s beautiful,” Finn observed in a muted undertone, not speaking to anyone in particular.
The Terms of Their Affair Page 9
