But the sight when I enter his wardrobe makes them falter and my feet skid to a stop. I drop Miller’s hand and run my eyes over the three walls of rails on a slightly gaping mouth. ‘You really did replace all of your suits?’ I ask in disbelief, swinging around to face him.
He doesn’t retreat, nor does he look in the slight bit embarrassed. ‘Of course,’ he says, like I’m utterly daft for thinking he wouldn’t. He must have spent a small fortune! ‘Which would you have me wear?’
I watch as he casts a hand around the room slowly, and my eyes follow it until I’m faced with a sea of expensive material again. ‘I don’t know,’ I admit, feeling a bit overwhelmed. My fiddling fingers find my ring and start spinning it wildly as I wander the length of each wall, wondering what to put him in. My decision is made easy when I spot a dark navy pinstriped suit. I reach up to feel the material. It’s so smooth. Luxurious. His eyes will pop even more. ‘This one.’ I unhook the hanger and whirl around to face him. ‘I love this one.’ Because he needs to look perfect when I let him leave me to kill someone. I shake my head, trying to shake my errant thoughts away.
‘You should.’ He approaches and relieves me of the suit. ‘It’s a three-thousand-pound suit.’
‘How much?’ I gasp, horrified. ‘Three thousand pounds?’
‘Correct.’ He’s completely unfazed. ‘You get what you pay for.’
I muscle in and reclaim the suit, hooking it over the wardrobe runner. Then I fetch some boxers and kneel, holding them open for him to step into with one foot, and then the other.
I work the material up his thighs, being sure to brush my hands across his skin as I do. I definitely don’t imagine him flinching each time my touch skims him, and I definitely hear his constant quiet hitches of breath. I just want myself on every piece of him. ‘There,’ I say, arranging the waist of his boxers just so. I stand back and stare. I shouldn’t, but Miller’s physique against the crisp white boxer shorts is impossible to ignore. Impossible not to appreciate. Impossible to keep my hands off. Impossible for anyone to keep their hands off.
She won’t be tasting him. My mind is playing tug-of-war, going between the two horrors playing in my mind. Both are unbearable to think about. I’m looking at his ripped torso, seeing stunning, inviting flesh, but I’m also seeing power. Strength. He looked deadly in that footage. There were no cut muscles, no visible signs of danger, only the air of malice behind his empty eyes. Now he has the strength to back up that deadly temper.
Stop!
I fly around and grab his trousers, wanting to reach into my head and snatch that thought right out. ‘These,’ I blurt abruptly, yanking the button open and crouching at his feet again.
My anxious motions are ignored. Because he knows what I’m thinking. I clench my eyes shut and only re-open them when I hear him shift and feel his trousers move in my hand. He’s not going to say anything, and I’m eternally grateful.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
It seems to take me forever to work his trousers up his legs and when I reach his waist, I leave them hanging open, my thumbs tucked into the waist, resting on his skin. My heart is thrumming a consistent, hard beat in my chest, but I can feel my emotion squeezing at my aching muscle. It’s going to give soon. My heart is literally breaking.
‘Shirt,’ I say under my breath, like I’m prompting myself with what should come next. ‘We need a shirt.’ I reluctantly remove my hands from his body and confront the rails of expensive dress shirts. I don’t bother flicking through, instead just taking down one of the dozens of bright white ones and unbuttoning it with care, being sure not to create any creases. His breath kisses my cheeks as I hold it and he threads his arms through. He’s silent and co-operative, letting me do my thing at my own pace. I secure the buttons slowly, hiding away the perfection of his chest, until I reach his neck. His chin lifts slightly to make my task easier, the bruise on his neck screaming loud and proud, before I work his cuffs, ignoring my unreasonable mind wondering how he’ll cope with blood on his fine threads. Will there be blood?
My eyes clench shut briefly as I fight to halt my train of thought.
Next is his tie. There are so many, and after perusing the rainbow of silk for a few moments, I settle on a silver-grey silk one to match the stripe in his suit. But when I turn towards him again, the difficulty of my next task hits me. I’ll never knot it to Miller’s high standard. I begin toying with the material as I look up at him, finding lazy blues watching me closely, and I expect that’s exactly how he’s been looking at me the whole time I’ve been in my own little world dressing him.
‘You’d better take over.’ I admit defeat and hold the tie out to him, but he pushes my hand away and moves in fast, picking me up by my hips and sitting me on the counter.
A chaste kiss is placed on my lips before he lifts the collar of his shirt. ‘You do it.’
‘Me?’ I’m wary and it’s obvious. ‘I’ll screw it all up.’
‘I don’t care.’ My hands are taken to the back of his neck. ‘I want you to fix my tie.’
Nervous and surprised, I smooth the silver silk around his neck and let the two sides cascade down his front. My hands are hesitant. They are also shaking, but a few deep breaths and a quiet word with myself pulls me around and I start the meticulous task of knotting a tie around Miller Hart’s neck – something I know for sure that no one has ever had the privilege of doing in the history of Miller Hart.
I faff and fiddle forever, but I don’t care. I feel a ridiculous amount of pressure and despite it being really quite silly, I can’t seem to locate the rationality to be unbothered. I’m really bothered. I pat the knot a hundred times, my head cocking from side to side, checking it out at every angle. To my naked eye, it looks pretty perfect. To Miller’s, it’ll look like a train wreck.
‘Done,’ I declare, finally dropping my busy hands into my lap, but not moving my eyes from the kinda perfect tie. I don’t want to see the concern on his face.
‘Perfect,’ he whispers, taking my hands in his and bringing them to his lips. His unusual descriptive, especially when referring to another’s handiwork, throws me.
I brave looking up at him, feeling his hot breath heating my knuckles. ‘You haven’t checked.’
‘I don’t need to.’
I frown, flicking my eyes back down to the tie. ‘It’s not Miller-perfect, though.’ I’m dumbfounded. Where are his twitching hands, itching to put it right?
‘No.’ Miller kisses each hand and puts them neatly back in my lap. Then he reaches for his collar and pulls it down, rather haphazardly. ‘It’s Olivia-perfect.’
I’m quickly looking at him again. His eyes are twinkling a little. ‘But Olivia-perfect isn’t actually perfect.’
A beautiful smile joins his sparkling eyes and centres my off-kilter world. ‘You’re wrong.’ His answer to that makes me withdraw in surprise, though I don’t argue. ‘Waistcoat?’
‘Right,’ I exhale the word slowly and slink down from the unit, watching him as I pad over to the rails again.
He keeps his smile in place. ‘Chop-chop.’
I’m scowling now and blindly reaching for the waistcoat after a brief glance tells me where it is. I can’t rip my inquisitive eyes away from him. ‘Here.’ I hold it out.
‘We do this your way,’ he reminds me, striding over and holding one arm out. ‘I like you looking after me.’
I huff a sardonic puff of laughter and remove the waistcoat from the hanger, then proceed to help him into it. His chest is quickly close to mine again and my hands are being lifted to the buttons. I can do nothing more than as I’m bid, fastening up each button, then collecting his socks and tan brogues when I’m done. I kneel and rest my bum on my calves to get him into his socks and shoes, tying the laces before making sure the hems of his trouser legs are straight. And last is his jacket. It completes him. He looks spectacular, and his hair is now damp and the dark waves super wavy.
He looks divine.
Gorgeous.
<
br /> Devastating.
‘You’re ready,’ I breathe, stepping back and pulling my towel in. ‘Oh!’ I quickly turn and scoop up his Tom Ford, not resisting a sniff from the bottle before I douse Miller at the neck. He lifts his chin for me again, his eyes boring into me as I spritz him. ‘Now you’re perfect.’
‘Thank you,’ he murmurs.
I replace the bottle, avoiding meeting his stare. ‘You don’t need to thank me.’
‘You’re right,’ he replies softly. ‘I need to thank whatever angel sent you to me.’
‘No one sent me to you, Miller.’ I face unimaginable beauty, my eyes squinting to prevent the image from burning my irises. ‘You found me.’
‘Give me my thing.’
‘I’ll crease you.’ I don’t know why I’m searching for excuses when I’m so desperate for him to hold me. Or maybe I do know.
I won’t be able to let go.
‘I’ve asked once.’ He steps forward gently but threateningly. ‘Don’t make me ask again, Olivia.’
My lips straighten and I shake my head. ‘I can’t bear the thought of releasing you. I won’t be able to.’
He winces and his blue eyes glaze over. ‘Please, I beg you.’
‘And I’m begging you not to force me.’ I stand firm, knowing I’m doing the right thing. ‘I love you. Just go.’
I’ve never been so challenged in my whole life. Maintaining my front is crippling me, and seeing Miller so unsure of what to do isn’t helping. His expensive shoes are rooted to the carpet, his eyes burning into mine, as if he’s trying to read past my forced hard exterior. This man can see into my soul. He knows what I’m doing and I’m screaming in my head for him to let me do it. My way. This has to be done my way.
The relief that attacks me when he slowly turns has my hand darting out to steady myself on the unit. He walks away slowly, the hurt building with each step he takes. I’m missing him already and he’s not even left the room yet. The urge to scream for him to stop nearly gets the better of me, and my feet are shifting beneath me, willing me to chase him down.
Be strong, Olivia!
Tears pinch the backs of my eyes and my heart slowly beats its way up to my throat. I’m in agony.
He stops at the door.
I hold my breath.
And I hear him draw his. ‘Never stop loving me, Olivia Taylor.’
He disappears.
My strength drains from my body and I crumple to the ground, but I don’t cry. Not until I hear the front door close. Then it all comes pouring from me like a waterfall. My back finds the unit, my knees meet my chest, and my head meets my knees, my arms wrapping around me, making myself as small as possible.
I cry.
For what seems like forever.
Tonight really is going to be the longest night of my life.
Chapter 23
An hour later, I’m on Miller’s squidgy couch after trying his bed, the lounge, the kitchen. The detailed cornice circling the ceiling is imprinted on my mind and I’ve relived every moment since I’ve met Miller. Everything. I’m smiling to myself each time I’ve pictured any one of Miller’s spellbinding traits, but then I’m cursing aloud when the image of Gracie Taylor intrudes on my attempts to distract myself. She doesn’t have a place in my thoughts or my life, so just the mere fact that she’s taking up any scrap of my thinking space is infuriating me. I haven’t the time or the energy to wallow in the added turmoil she could spike. She’s undeserving of any heartache I could allow myself to feel. She’s selfish. I hate her, except now I have a clear image – a face etched on my mind to hate.
I toss my body over on the couch, so I’m now staring out across the London skyline, and I’m wondering if my mind is purposely sending me down this line of thought. Am I subconsciously distracting myself from thinking about what’s happening right now? Is this anger better than the wretchedness I’m certain to feel if I allow my brain to focus on what Miller is doing right now?
I squeeze my eyes shut, mentally yelling at myself when Gracie is suddenly gone and the perfection of Miller before he left me in his dressing room replaces her. I can’t do this. I can’t sit here all night waiting for him to return. I’ll be certifiably crazy before the night’s over.
I jump up from the couch like it’s caught fire and hurry from Miller’s studio, being sure not to let my eyes catch sight of his paint table, knowing seeing myself spread on it won’t help. Neither will looking at the sofa in his lounge, or his bed, or the shower, or the fridge, or the kitchen floor . . .
‘Oh God!’ I reach up and tug a little at my hair in frustration as I turn in circles in the middle of the lounge, deliberating on where I should hide. The slight stabbing pain on my scalp only reminds me of Miller’s fingers knotted in my hair. I can’t escape.
Panic starts to attack me. I clench my eyes shut and start breathing deeply to calm my frantic heartbeats. I count to ten.
One.
All I can offer you is one night.
Two.
And I’m praying that you’ll give it to me.
Three.
I’ve told you, Livy. You fascinate me.
Four.
Are you ready to let me worship you, Olivia Taylor?
Five.
I’ll never do anything less than worship you. I’m never going to be a drunken fumble, Livy. Every time I take you, you’ll remember it. Each and every moment will be etched on that beautiful mind of yours forever. Every kiss. Every touch. Every word. Because that’s how it is for me.
Six.
This beautiful, pure girl has fallen in love with the big bad wolf.
Seven.
Never stop loving me.
Eight.
Accept me as I am, sweet girl. Because it’s so much better than what I was.
Nine.
You are my perfect, Olivia Taylor.
Ten.
I fucking love her! I love her. I love everything she stands for and I love how much she loves me. If any fucker tries to take her away from me, then I’ll fucking kill them. Slowly.
‘Stop!’ I dash to his room and seek out my clothes, throwing them on chaotically before snatching up my bag and pelting for the door. I start to dial Sylvie on my way, but my phone rings in my hand before I can call my friend.
Every instinct tells me to reject the call. There’s no name. Just a number. I recognise it, though. I pause at Miller’s front door, my hand on the handle, and connect the call. ‘Sophia,’ I breathe down the line, eliminating all caution from my tone.
‘I’m on my way to the airport,’ she says matter-of-factly, almost business-like.
‘And that would interest me because?’ It actually does interest me. She’s leaving the country? Good!
‘It will interest you, sweet girl, because Charlie has changed the plan. I need to leave before he finds out I’ve destroyed that footage and beats me beyond recognition.’
My hand shifts on the doorknob, my interest increasing, but now mixed with fear. She might have a resentful, nasty edge to her smooth voice, but she can’t hide the fear that’s lacing the edges of it. ‘Changed the plan how?’ My pulse is suddenly throbbing in my ears.
‘I heard him before I left. He’s not taking any chances with Miller. He can’t risk that jeopardising his deal.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Olivia . . .’ She pauses, like she’s reluctant to give me the information. My stomach performs a full spin, making me feel instantly sick. ‘He’s planning on drugging Miller and feeding him to that vile Russian woman.’
‘What!’ I drop the door handle, staggering back. ‘Oh God.’ I start shaking. He won’t be able to kill Charlie. That thought alone has sent my worry into panic, but the added knowledge of what that woman could do to him has just catapulted that panic into terror. She’ll undo everything he’s worked so hard to fix. It will be like that video happening all over again. My throat starts to close off on me. I can’t breathe.
‘Livy!’ Sophia shouts,
snapping me from mental meltdown. ‘Two, zero, one, five. Remember that number. You also need to know that I destroyed the pistol. I have a flight to nowhere. Call William. You need to stop Miller before you lose him forever.’ She hangs up.
I drop my phone and stare blankly at the screen. Before I can give any amount of reasonable time to consider my next move, I’m on my way to the door, panic flaming.
I need William. I need to know where the Temple is. But first I try Miller, shouting my despair when it goes to voice mail, so I hang up and try again. And again. And again. ‘Answer the phone!’ I scream, smashing the call button for the lift. He doesn’t. It goes to voice mail yet again and I try to gulp down some air to talk, praying he’ll pick up the message before accepting a drink at the Temple.
‘Miller,’ I pant down the line as the doors begin to open. ‘Call me, please. I’ve—’ My tongue turns to lead in my mouth and my body stills when the inside of the lift comes into view. ‘No,’ I whisper, stepping back from the source of my fear. I should turn and run, but my muscles have seized and are ignoring my brain’s screaming commands. ‘No.’ I shake my head.
I could be looking in the mirror.
‘Olivia.’ My mother’s navy eyes widen a little. ‘Olivia, baby, what’s the matter?’
I’m not sure what’s telling her that there’s more to my shock than simply finding her in the lift. I back away.
‘Olivia, please. Don’t run from me.’
‘Go away,’ I whisper. ‘Please, just go.’ I don’t need this. I don’t need her. I have far more important things that need my attention – things that deserve my attention, need my attention. My resentment begins to build at the prospect of her delaying me. If time wasn’t of the essence, I’d attack her with the sass I inherited from her. But I don’t have time for her. Miller needs me. I turn and rush to the stairs.
‘Olivia!’
I ignore her desperate cries and barge through the door, taking the concrete stairs two at a time. The loud clicks of her heels on the stone rings out around me, telling me she’s in pursuit, but I have Converse on and they win over heels any day of the week, especially when you’re in a hurry. I pass floor after floor as I fumble with my phone, trying to dial William as I try to escape my mother.
One Night: Unveiled Page 32
