‘It’s lucky, though. Lucky there happened to be a seat spare, otherwise you may well have been waiting until tomorrow.’
I lift my brows heavenwards. ‘Not when you were waiting in the wings...’
‘True.’ He grins. ‘Consider me your knight in shining aluminium.’
‘See? Now you’ve gone and reminded me that airplanes are made of the same metal as a soda can and I feel a lot less safe,’ I joke.
‘Seriously, the management of our planes puts commercial airlines to shame. They’re refitted every six months, our pilots are all ex-military and their Continuing Professional Development is rigorous. If you’re ever going to not be afraid of flying, it’s when you’re on a Hart jet.’
His confidence and passion scatter goosebumps across my skin. ‘I’m not afraid any more. I told you, I grew out of it. I fly a lot for work, so I had to.’
He puts his hand over mine, his fingers stroking my flesh, his eyes heavy on my face. ‘What’s in Paris?’
I’m grateful for the conversation change. ‘I have to meet with the production manager of our Angel Pie line—it’s new,’ I explain quickly, because he won’t have heard of it yet. ‘We’re launching in winter, all things going to plan. But the packaging is proving difficult to nail and some of the colours just aren’t quite right.’
‘You sound stressed?’
I nod. ‘It’s my baby,’ I explain thoughtfully. ‘I came up with the concept for the brand four years ago, and it’s been a lot of work since then. A lot of capital too. It’s a gamble.’
‘But you’re confident?’
I grimace. ‘Can you ever be completely confident? I’ve done my market research. There’s a huge void. Plus, the line capitalises on the global trend for embracing sustainable, ethical products. But yeah, I mean it’s risky to target teenagers because they don’t think in terms of their future health generally, and they’re cash strapped.’ I bite down on my lip thoughtfully.
‘It’s make-up aimed at teens?’
‘Teens and pre-teens. We’ve got a couple of awesome celebrities lined up to engage that market, YouTubers, influencers, that kind of thing.’ I wave a hand through the air and my bangles jingle against my watch. ‘And it’s not just make-up; it’s moisturiser, sunscreen, lip glosses.’
He frowns. ‘Kids wear that stuff?’
I laugh. ‘Yeah, it accounts for a huge piece of the cosmetic pie. But—’ I squeeze his hand ‘—the current market leaves a lot to be desired. You’d be shocked to learn how many products have been recalled because they were found to contain asbestos.’
His eyes narrow.
‘There’s talc, hormone-blocking parfums, because those ingredients are usually cheap so manufacturers tend to use them to save costs. But it’s messing with kids’ health, and that shouldn’t be the case. There should be a way for teens to mess around with beauty and make-up without endangering their future self.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘Lots of people don’t. So our pre-launch campaign is about awareness. We’ve got great position ads ready to go, mainly targeting digital media, YouTube again, then traditional youth market placement like magazines, some television ads. By the time samples go out, I’m hoping we’ll have an engaged market.’
He shifts in his seat, his eyes roaming my face in a way that brings heat to my cheeks. ‘I think that sounds amazing.’
‘I hope so. I’ve had to fight so hard for it.’
‘To fight who?’
I hesitate, but there’s something about Theo. There are so many somethings about him, come to think of it, that I hear myself say, ‘Everyone. My brother and father mainly. They’re old school.’
‘But you run Fleurs Sauvages?’
‘It’s a public company and they’re shareholders. I’m as accountable to them as any other shareholder. Plus, Dad doesn’t let go of the reins easily.’
‘You’ve done amazing things for the company.’
‘I know.’ I don’t bother to attempt false modesty. The facts speak for themselves. ‘But this is a gamble. We’ve never targeted the teen market before and we’re going against a lot of industry standards. Cheap, cheap, cheap is what’s generally manufactured for that demographic, because they don’t have the money necessarily and they don’t look after their stuff. Plus, trends change and they want to be able to buy into everything. Angel Pie won’t compete on price; it’s a premium product, though I’m bringing our margins down as low as I can to make it appealing and accessible.’
‘How does your dad feel about that?’
‘Profit margins are why you’re in business, Asha. We’re not a charity,’ I mimic, and shake my head, a rueful smile on my face. ‘But I mean, when is enough money enough? We’re richer than any family should ever be—okay, I know I’m talking to a Hart—but we can afford to take a small hit here. And it won’t be a hit anyway. I’ve done the figures. It’s going to be a boon for the company, but yeah, I’m reducing the price so we can get the product into more consumer hands because this matters. It’s really important. Kids shouldn’t be risking damage to their bodies because they want to tinker with cosmetics.’
‘I agree.’ His voice is low, gruff and something inside of me twists. ‘I don’t think anyone who gave you five minutes to speak your case could feel otherwise.’
I bite down on my lip. ‘Dad will come around. He’s just...stubborn.’
‘Ah.’ He moves closer and I breathe him in, my tummy twisting into a billion knots. ‘And that bothers you?’
‘It’s the way he is.’
He shakes his head once. ‘I meant that he doesn’t approve of what you’re doing.’
My heart speeds up at his perceptiveness. ‘I spent a long time feeling like I had to prove myself to him,’ I surprise myself by admitting. ‘I was never going to be good enough. I’m not Joshua,’ I say simply. ‘It was only once I finally accepted that I’d never earn his approval, no matter what I did, that I was freed up to go in this direction, to pursue something out of left field and follow my passion.’
We’re so close to one another I can see the emotions flickering inside his eyes.
‘He’ll never be proud of me, and that’s okay.’ My lips shift into a fleeting smile. ‘It’s not about me. It’s about him.’
‘It’s why you’ve pushed yourself so hard, though?’
‘At first, yeah.’ I keep my voice light. ‘I mean, I thought that with every good year we had, he’d finally be happy with what I was doing. And he was. I mean, he’s not a monster. He told me I’d done well, but it never felt like it was enough. So I worked harder and harder and did better and better and then, a few years ago, I had this epiphany: he’s never going to be proud of me in the way I want. He’s never going to love me in the way I want. And you can’t force someone to be what you want them to be. He’s my dad, and he loves me in his own way, but I was just making myself miserable by trying to be what Joshua is to him.’ I shake my head a little. ‘I launched Project Teen—that’s what I called it back then—a week later.’
‘And when it’s launched?’
‘I’ll take a break.’ I laugh. ‘And maybe even get a life.’
‘Right, with your new boyfriend.’ He grins in a way that usually makes my tummy all swoopy but doesn’t right now. Instead, it makes me feel like I’ve just crested over the highpoint of a rollercoaster and I’m plummeting back to earth.
‘Yeah.’ I smile clumsily, because it feels like I should. That’s our deal, right? We’re just marking time now, enjoying each other’s bodies, until his brother’s wedding.
His finger presses to my chin, lifting my face to his. ‘Anyone who doesn’t see what an incredible woman you are is an idiot.’ I’m not sure if we’re talking about prospective dates now or my dad, but I find it hard to respond either way.
He frowns, moving closer, and right before he kis
ses me he says something no one’s ever said to me before, something that makes my gut lurch. ‘You deserve every happiness, Asha. You deserve everything.’
Out of nowhere, I wonder about him. I wonder what he wants and what he deserves. I wonder if he thinks I deserve him. The question catches me off-guard. It’s unwelcome and inappropriate so I ignore it. I surrender to his kiss—nothing else seems to matter right now anyway.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘THIS ISN’T WHAT I expected.’ He looks around my place with a smile on his lips that is my undoing. God, when will I not crave him?
I follow his gaze, seeing this apartment through his eyes. In the eighteenth arrondissement, nestled a stone’s throw from Sacré Coeur, this place is almost exactly as Grand-mère left it. Bright, so bright, with stunning wallpapers everywhere, sumptuous velvet furnishings, original Impressionist artwork, lamps that cast a warm glow, rugs that are hand woven from soft, beautiful wool. The French windows open onto a series of Juliet balconies, each framing a stunning view of Paris. But it’s not pretentious at all. It’s homely and beautiful, ultra-feminine and tactile.
‘No?’ He’s carrying both our bags. ‘The bedroom’s through there.’
He lifts a brow and I laugh. ‘To put our bags down.’
He grins and moves that way. A second later, I hear his laugh. ‘Holy hell.’
‘What?’ I move into the kitchen, flicking the kettle to life.
‘You actually sleep in that bed?’
I think of the elaborately sculpted four-poster with its ornate floral headpiece and grin. ‘Yep. It’s surprisingly comfortable.’
‘Once you get rid of the hundred pillows?’
‘There are a lot of throw cushions, aren’t there?’
I make a couple of teas and reach into the fridge. As usual, Kevin’s had it stocked for me; there’s a range of food as well as milk, wine, juice. I finish the tea as Theo emerges.
‘Let me guess,’ I say at his look of bemusement. ‘You have a place in Paris and it’s nothing like this?’
His eyes show amusement. ‘I don’t think there’s anything like this. Anywhere.’
‘It was my grand-mère’s,’ I explain. ‘I didn’t feel right changing it, once she died.’ I look around, a fond smile on my lips. ‘If you knew her, you’d understand. So much of who she was is wrapped up in this place. Coming here, it’s like coming home to her. I feel her everywhere.’
‘Ah.’ He nods, moving towards one of the photo frames that sit above the fireplace. He picks it up, a smile on his lips. ‘You?’
I nod, lifting my tea and cradling it in my palms as I walk closer towards him. ‘I would have been about twelve, I think.’
‘Did you come here often?’
‘Most summers.’
He’s quiet, but it’s a silence that speaks volumes. I hear his questions, yet it’s late and I’m tired. ‘I made you a tea.’
He looks down at me, a smile tipping his lips. ‘That was kind of you.’
‘You don’t drink tea?’
‘Not once in my life.’
‘Try it; you might like it.’
‘I’m okay.’ He grins, but then sobers. ‘What do you have on tomorrow?’
‘Meetings.’
‘All day?’
‘Probably.’ I scan his face. ‘I’m sorry you’ll be here cooling your heels...’
‘I’ll work.’ He lifts his shoulders. ‘We have an office in the QCA.’
‘Ah, of course.’
‘But I know a great place for dinner tomorrow night.’
Something like magic steals through my soul. ‘Sounds nice.’
Nice is an understatement, though. Suddenly I feel like there are no words to explain how I feel.
* * *
I wake up with a raging hard-on and a frown on my face, because there’s just no way I can make the most of it in this frou-frou excuse for a bedroom.
‘Bonjour...’
She grins at me, her eyes sparkling, her long red hair in total disarray. I imagine her on top of me, that beautiful hair draped around her shoulders. Great. That’s not helpful.
‘Bonjour yourself.’
‘How’d you sleep?’
I reach for her, pulling her body close to mine. To hell with it. ‘Like a log.’
‘Mmm...’ Her murmur is pure sensual invitation.
‘I can’t do this,’ I grunt, shaking my head ruefully. ‘I feel like your grand-mère is watching us.’
She laughs. ‘I’m pretty sure she’s not.’
I’m not convinced.
‘And if she were, she’d thoroughly approve.’
At that, I laugh.
‘I’m not kidding. After my grandpa died, she had quite the slew of romantic adventures.’
‘Well, if you’re sure...’
She makes a little noise of surprise as I pull her on top of me, her eyes flaring wide at the feeling of my cock between her legs. ‘Yep. I’m positive...’
* * *
My day is long with a capital L, and all I want is to wrap it up and get back to Theo. The way we made love this morning makes my throat dry just thinking about it. But there’s so much to do, so much to cover, that it’s almost nine before I finally finish my last meeting, and even then it’s with the promise I’ll be back the next day to smooth out some of the last details.
Theo is at my place when I arrive and I pause just inside the door, staring at him for a moment, my heart in my throat at the sight of him here, in the place I feel most comfortable, most like myself.
He’s wearing a suit, his hair up high on his head, his features so chiselled and strong, his face bearing a mask of intense concentration as he reads a broadsheet newspaper. He’s sitting in the purple velvet chair and it’s such a beautiful contradiction—him so masculine and the chair so feminine—that something inside me flutters. I want to smile, but I can’t. He’s just so...
‘Hey—’ he lifts his gaze ‘—whatcha looking at?’
I force a smile to my face and stamp out the direction of my thoughts. ‘Nothing. Sorry I’m so late.’
‘It’s not late. We’re in Paris, baby. Things don’t get started here till midnight.’
‘But dinner...’
He shrugs. ‘We can go any time.’
My heart lifts and my stomach grumbles audibly.
He lifts a brow. ‘Like right now?’
‘Yep. Just give me five minutes.’
I push into the bathroom and smile, imagining Theo here. It’s gold. Everywhere. Gold claw-foot bath tub, gold-edged mirror, marble tiles with gold details, marble vanity with gold taps.
But there’s no shower, so he must have had a bath after I left this morning. Bless him. I can’t stop grinning as I touch up my make-up and hair, imagining Theo Hart, all six and a half feet of him, folded into this tub.
When I emerge he’s standing up, a glass of wine in his hand. He’s still looking around the apartment with that same look of bemusement.
‘I’ve just never seen anywhere like it,’ he explains in response to my unasked question.
‘I have to admit, I’ve been laughing to myself imagining you folded into the bath tub...’
‘I showered at my office,’ he says with a shake of his head. ‘If we come back to Paris, we might have to get a hotel.’
I spin away from him before he can catch the expression that crosses my features, my heart jackhammering against my ribcage, because it sounds so happy and domesticated, so normal, but it’s not, because we won’t be coming back to Paris. His brother’s wedding is only two and a half weeks away, and that’s when this ends.
I briefly imagine that we don’t end it. I wonder what he’d say if I suggest an extension to our agreement, but all the reasons for having that line in the sand are still there.
He’s quicksa
nd and if I’m not careful I’ll sink deeper and deeper into him until eventually I find I’m unable to escape. He’s addictive and beautiful and fascinating and there’s absolutely no future here. He’s been stone cold clear about that from the very beginning, and I have no reason to think I’d ever be able to change his mind.
He wants this—just this—and even if I decided to want something more, something meaningful, that’s not what Theo’s offering. I reach for my clutch purse and paste a confident smile on my face. ‘Let’s go.’
The restaurant is not what I expected, and I don’t know why, given that the one other time we dined together he took me to an equally out-of-the-way eatery that was big on atmosphere and small on pretension. This is just like that—so charming and unique, a classic French bistro with touches of flair everywhere. It’s a warm night and the windows to the sidewalk are thrown open. Chairs are lined up against the walls in the European style, but we sit inside, in another booth, this one lined with black velvet. The table between us is pale marble and a small gold lamp sits on the top, making the ambience moody. The walls are papered with a floral print; huge watercolour blooms in shades of green and pale pink pop against their creamy background. The window frames are glossy black and the floor is grey concrete.
But it’s the food that takes my breath away. Delicate offerings, each beautifully arranged on the plate, without being overdone. There’s seafood, meat, chicken, vegetables. We eat until I can literally eat no more, and in between I drink the fine red wine Theo has chosen.
‘This is beautiful.’
Across from me, his eyes rest on my lips for a moment too long, so my heart rate kicks up a notch. Beneath the table, our feet brush and I remember we said we’re better off avoiding restaurant situations—and why. Desire is a wave inside of me, gaining speed and urgency.
‘Do you come here often?’
‘To Paris?’
‘Yeah, and here. The waiting staff seem to know you.’
He nods. ‘A friend of mine owns it, and the gin bar across the street.’ He nods across the cobbled road, where I see a packed bar. It has marks of the same bohemian charm as this restaurant. His expression shifts for a moment and then he smiles, a smile that warms my blood. ‘I actually thought you might be interested in meeting him.’
Burn My Hart Page 10
