Project: Runaway Heiress

by Heidi Betts

  “But quite frankly,” he continued when she didn’t respond, “I’m not that sorry.”

  Her eyes widened, locking with his. What she saw there was the same passion she’d experienced in the limo. The same need, the same longing...but banked to a slow burn rather than a blazing inferno.

  “Which makes what I have to ask next rather awkward.”

  Lily swallowed, the blood in her veins going thick and hot.

  “Would you mind stepping out of your gown?”

  She blinked. That wasn’t so bad. A little odd, yes, but only because she would have expected him to be closer when he made the request. Maybe whisper it in her ear or want to strip it from her body himself.

  But if watching her disrobe was part of his fantasy, she could certainly comply.

  And then he went and ruined whatever small thread of fantasy had been forming in her head.

  “The dress and shoes need to be returned before tomorrow’s show.”

  “Oh.” Yes, of course. The fashion show. She was walking around in one of its borrowed designs.

  “Sure,” she said, fumbling for both words and clear thoughts. “Just...give me a minute.”

  Feeling unsure and uncoordinated, she turned toward the bedroom and crossed the distance with as much dignity as she could muster while kicking herself for being seven kinds of fool.

  Closing the door behind her, she moved robotically, removing the necklace, earrings, bracelet and ring, and setting them on top of the bureau. Then she toed off the strappy ice-pick heels. And though she nearly dislocated her shoulder doing it, she managed to grasp the tab of the gown’s zipper at her back and tug it all the way down. Stepping out of the dress, she returned it to its satin hanger inside the garment bag, then zipped that closed.

  Since she couldn’t go back out to the rest of the suite in her underwear, she covered herself with the same fluffy hotel robe as earlier, which she’d left lying at the foot of the bed.

  Gathering all of Nigel’s borrowed items, she strode back into the sitting room. He was standing exactly where she’d left him, but she refused to meet his gaze. She’d had quite enough humiliation and emotional up-and-down, back-and-forth for one night, thank you very much.

  Walking to the sofa, she draped the garment bag over the arm, dropped the shoes back in their tissue-paper-lined box, and laid the collection of pricey jewelry on the low coffee table.

  “There you go,” she told him, her tone clipped, even to her own ears. And still she wouldn’t look at him. “Thank you again for letting me wear them tonight. It was a privilege.”

  Truth. It had been a privilege...right up until the moment it became pain.

  With that, she turned and marched back to the bedroom, spine straight, head held high. She remained that way until after she’d closed and locked the door. Until she’d shed the robe and her underthings, leaving them in a pile on the bathroom floor. Until she’d stepped into the hot spray of the shower, letting the sharp beads of water pummel her, pound her, drown her in mindless sensation.

  Only then did she let go of her rigid control, let oxygen back into her lungs and the hurt into her soul.

  Only then did she crumble.

  * * *

  Well, that didn’t go quite as he’d planned. And he felt like a total prat.

  The kiss in the limousine had been anything but forgettable. There had been moments when he’d thought he might implode from the sensations that assailed him at the mere touch of Lillian’s lips against his own.

  It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed to pull away from her when the car stopped, and to get them both set to rights before their driver came around to open his door and got more than an eyeful. Thank goodness he’d retained enough of his senses to even notice the slowing of the vehicle.

  The walk into the hotel and ride up in the lift had been another agonizing test of his control. He’d wanted nothing more than to turn on her once the doors slid closed, press her up against the wall, and continue from where they’d left off. Kissing, caressing, fogging the glass...or in this case, the mirrored walls.

  Every step down the narrow pathway to their suite, he’d imagined what he would do to her as soon as they were shut safely inside. Alone and away from prying eyes.

  But he couldn’t very well pounce on her the minute the door swung shut, could he? She might have thought him a sex-crazed maniac. Or worse, believed that whether or not she acquiesced might impact her job.

  Nigel muttered a colorful oath. The last thing he needed was a sexual-harassment complaint brought against him or the company.

  But more than that, he didn’t want to be that fellow—the one who flirted with his secretary, made her believe that there might be recompense if she went along with his advances...and the unemployment line if she didn’t.

  And he never wanted Lillian to think that of him. Professional status and reputation be damned. His attraction to her was genuine—if ill conceived—and he wanted her to know that. He wanted her to be genuinely attracted to him, as well. Where was the fun in any of this if she wasn’t?

  He’d thought he was being witty and smooth by asking her to remove the dress for tomorrow’s show. True, he did need to get it back so that it would be ready and waiting for its respective model by morning.

  Inside his addled and obviously not very intelligent mind, however, he’d imagined her slinking out of the dress and shoes—either right there in front of him or in the privacy of the bedroom—and then him suavely murmuring that now that she was naked, how would she feel about picking up where they’d left off?

  It had all sounded so bloody brilliant as he’d played it out over and over in his head. And then somehow he’d mucked it up. He’d said the wrong thing or said it the wrong way.

  Something had gone cockeyed, because Lillian’s face had transformed from soft and mistily content to shocked and hurt.

  He’d missed the chance to apologize and set the matter straight before she disappeared into the bedroom. Then when she’d come out, he’d been too gobsmacked and tongue-tied by his own stupidity to rectify the situation before she ran off again.

  Bloody hell. What was it about this woman that turned him into a complete wanker?

  Regardless, he had to fix it. He might not be spending the rest of the evening exactly as he’d hoped—naked and writhing around with Lillian on that king-size bed he had yet to sleep in—but he couldn’t let her storm off thinking he was a git. That the kiss they’d shared meant nothing or that getting Ashdown Abbey’s dress back safe and sound was more important to him than what was blooming to life between them.

  Long minutes passed while he tried to decide how to go about cleaning up the mess he’d made. The clock on the mantel counted them down, grating on his nerves even as he paced in time with the steady tick-tick-tick of the second hand going round.

  After wearing a path in front of the sofa, he moved closer to the bedroom door. He could hear the faint sound of water running and assumed she was taking a shower.

  The thought of her stripped bare, standing beneath the steaming jets, made it increasingly hard to concentrate. It made other things hard, as well. Especially when he pictured her working up a lather of soap and rubbing it all along her body. Stroking, smoothing, scrubbing. First her arms, then her breasts and torso and...lower.

  A thin line of perspiration broke out along his upper lip and his muscles went tense. He’d never known that the act of getting clean could be so dirty. And he very much wanted to walk in there to assist with both.

  Chances were he’d get his face slapped for his trouble. He had to talk to her first. Work on seducing her back into the shower second.

  The water shut off suddenly. And he strained to listen for movement on the other side of the door while bracing himself with both hands against the jamb on this one.

  He didn’t want to frighten her, and chances were he was the last person she wanted to see right now, but he needed to talk to her.

  Waiting a few
minutes until he thought she would be finished in the bathroom but not yet climbing into bed, he tapped lightly on the door.

  His palms were damp. His chest was actually tight with anxiety.

  This wasn’t like him at all. He hadn’t been riddled with nerves about facing a girl since... Had he ever been? At university he’d even been a bit of a ladies’ man, if he said so himself.

  And now he was sweating like David Beckham after a particularly rigorous football match at just the prospect of confronting Lillian once again. Especially when he knew it would mostly involve groveling and apologizing and begging her not to continue believing he was a total squit.

  When long moments passed without her opening the door, he began to suspect she was avoiding him. Not that he blamed her. But he knew she was in there, knew she’d heard his knock and knew she couldn’t possibly be asleep yet.

  He cocked a brow. Well, now he was growing somewhat annoyed.

  He knocked again, louder this time. If need be, he would go in there with or without her invitation—after all, it was his suite, and he’d been generous up to now allowing her to have the spacious bedroom and master bath all to herself. Though he’d much prefer she open the door voluntarily so he wouldn’t have to add overbearing bullying to his list of crimes tonight.

  Just when he was about to try the door himself, he heard a small snick and the knob began to turn. The door opened only a crack, the light from the sitting room illuminating just one eye and a narrow portion of Lillian’s face. The rest was left in shadow by the darkness of the bedroom beyond.

  “Yes?”

  Her voice was low, flat and far from friendly when she said it.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he began.

  Which was so very close to simply I’m sorry, yet he managed to skirt a straight-out apology. Brilliant.

  “Could I speak to you for a moment?” he tried again, still taking the coward’s way out.

  “It’s late,” she told him, keeping the door open no more than a single inch. “I’m tired. We can talk in the morning.”

  And with that, she closed the door. Soundly, firmly and with a clicking lock of finality.

  Bugger. Nigel barely resisted the urge to smack his fist against the solid door frame.

  Well, he’d mucked that up good and proper, hadn’t he? Damn it all. The bloody dress that had started this debacle was on its way back to join the rest of the collection and await tomorrow’s fashion show, while he was still trying to find a way to mop up the mess he’d made.

  He took a deep breath, as frustrated with Lillian’s refusal to speak to him as with his own bungled efforts.

  Enough of this. It was going to be dealt with right here, right now and that was the end of it.

  Raising his hand, he knocked again, hard enough that she couldn’t help but hear the summons and know he meant business.

  “Go away, Mr. Statham.”

  Oh, so it was back to Mr. Statham, was it? When she’d just begun to call him Nigel.

  There was only one thing to be done about that.

  Leaning close to the door, he lowered his voice and ordered, “Open this door, Lillian.”

  He could have sworn he heard a snort of derision, followed by a mumbled, “I don’t think so.”

  His jaw locked, teeth grinding together until he thought they might snap.

  Slowly, carefully, enunciating every word, he bit out, “Open this door, Lillian, right now.”

  He paused, listening for movement, but heard none. “You have until the count of three,” he told her, sounding like every angry father in every movie he’d ever seen, “or I’ll kick it in.”

  In truth, he wasn’t certain he could kick the door in. He prided himself on staying in shape, playing at least a game or two of squash per week, in addition to his regular exercise routine. But nothing in his past led him to believe he would have either the strength or the martial-arts-like coordination necessary to actually break down a door.

  And then there was the sturdiness of the door itself. Not to mention the lock, which—hotel quality or not—might just prove to be un-break-down-able. He rather hoped he didn’t have to find out.

  Stepping backward, he took a deep breath, steeled himself and got ready to follow through on his promise.

  And then there came a click. And the muted turn of the knob.

  He watched as the brass-plated handle inched around, letting the air seep from his lungs on a slow exhale and the tension leach from his tendons.

  Once again, she opened the door only a crack, but at least this time it was a couple of inches instead of only one. Popping her head out, dark blond hair still damp from her shower, she glared at him.

  “Are you threatening me?” she asked, eyes crackling like lapis. “Because that smacks of a threat. Or possibly even harassment. I’ve got a phone in here with 9-1-1 on speed dial, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  Nigel sighed, resisting the urge to rub a hand over his face in frustration. With her. With himself.

  “Just a moment of your time,” he said. “Please.”

  When she didn’t immediately slam the door in his face, he soldiered on.

  “I wanted to apologize for earlier.”

  Her lashes fluttered as she narrowed her eyes a pinch, but he ignored the warning. With luck she would hear him out and stop shooting daggers.

  “It wasn’t my intention to offend you by asking you to remove the dress so it could be returned for the show tomorrow. In retrospect, I might have worded my request a bit differently.”

  He watched her arch a brow, her grip on the edge of the door loosening slightly. She even let it drift open another fraction of an inch.

  “For instance, I should have said that the sooner we got the dress off you and headed back for the show, the sooner we could return to what we were doing in the car. Or better yet, I should have ripped the dress off you as soon as we stepped into the suite and said to hell with the show. So we’d be short a look and a model would be sent home in tears...it would have been worth it to avoid hurting your feelings, as I obviously did. And to be making love to you right now instead of standing here having this conversation, hoping you won’t slam the door in my face. Again.”

  There, he’d said it. It had pained him, especially in the region of his pride, which seemed to currently be residing near his solar plexus, making it feel as though a very heavy anvil were pressing down on his diaphragm.

  Now to see if it had any impact on Lillian whatsoever, or if she would, indeed, slam the door in his face for a second time. He watched her carefully, trying to judge her response from the one eye, one cheek and half of her mouth that were visible.

  Her lashes fluttered, and her tongue darted out to lick those lips nervously.

  And then the door began to creak open—so slowly, he thought he might be imagining things.

  But the door did open, all the way. And she stepped out, into the light of the sitting room. Behind her, he could see that one of the lamps beside the king-size bed was lit, but it wasn’t bright enough to fill the entire room.

  She was wearing one of the hotel robes, covered from neck to ankle by thick, white terry cloth. She should have looked shapeless and unattractive, but instead she looked adorable. Her hair hung past her shoulders in damp, wavy strands, her flesh pink from its recent scrubbing.

  With the belt pulled tight, he could easily make out her feminine curves. The flare of her hips, the dip of her waist, the swell of her breasts. A V of skin and very slight shadow of cleavage were visible in the open neckline of the robe, making him want to linger, stare, nudge the soft lapels apart to reveal even more.

  He was on extremely thin ice with her already, however, and didn’t think it wise to press his luck. No matter how loudly his libido might be clamoring for him to do just that...and more.

  Threading her arms across her chest, she watched him warily.

  “So you don’t...regret what happened in the limo?” she asked quietly.

&nbs
p; Nigel’s heart gave a thump of encouragement. If she was asking, that meant she’d been thinking about it. Thinking and worrying.

  Taking a cautious step forward, he flexed his fingers to keep from reaching for her. But he answered clearly, honestly, consequences be damned.

  “Not even if you call the authorities, as you threatened. Or file a sexual-harassment complaint at Ashdown Abbey, as you have every right to do.”

  She seemed to consider that for a moment, and then the stiffness began to disappear from her rigid stance. Her expression lightened, her arms loosening to drop to her sides.

  Taking a deep breath that lifted the front of the robe in a way that shouldn’t have been seductive but was, she let it out on a long sigh.

  “This is a bad idea,” she murmured, letting her gaze skitter to the side so that he wasn’t certain if she was speaking to him or more to herself.

  “I’m working for you,” she continued. “You could fire me or use me because I’m in your employ. Things could get ugly.”

  Nigel’s shoulders fell almost imperceptibly, and he felt as though his entire bone structure slumped inside his skin. She was right, of course, but that wasn’t at all the reaction he’d been hoping for.

  “True,” he acquiesced, albeit grudgingly. “Though I’m not using you, and I would never fire you over something...personal. Something that I would be equally responsible for and took equal part in.”

  Her eyes locked on his. “You’re that noble, are you?”

  His chin went up, every ounce of the pride and dignity driven into him from birth coming to the fore. “Yes. I am.”

  It was her turn to slump as she let out a breath. “I was afraid of that,” she said, sounding almost resigned.

  And then her voice dropped, but he had no trouble hearing her. No trouble making out both the words and the meaning.

  “I’m not sorry, either. About what happened in the limo.”

  Ten

  Lily knew she should be sorry about what had happened in the limo. She should also have graciously accepted Nigel’s apology without saying anything more, then turned and locked herself back in the bedroom.