by R. R. Banks
“So, what do you do?” she asks.
“Oh, Christopher didn't tell you?”
She gives me a timid smile. “Sorry, I guess he didn't tell me much about you.”
I wave her off. That's not entirely surprising. Chris and I don't always see eye-to-eye. He's still resentful that I passed on working for the family business. I've tried to tell him countless times that I did him a favor – that this means he’s the undisputed law around Churchill Technologies without me there breathing down his neck.
He refuses to see it that way, though. He sees me as the black sheep of the family – treasonous and disloyal to our father's memory. What he doesn't understand, however, is that Dad wanted me to choose my own path. He wanted that for all of us. He didn't want us involved with the company if it wasn’t what moved or motivated us. Our father wanted us to have fulfilling careers that made us happy.
For Christopher, running the company is what makes him happy. It's his passion – which makes him the perfect fit for the job. That's not me. Never has been and never will be. I just wish he could understand that.
“I'm an attorney,” I explain.
“Oh really?” she asks. “Must be exciting to help put criminals in prison.”
“I don't practice criminal law,” I say. “Civil law, actually. My partner and I take on companies that try to defraud clients. Corporations that hurt people. We take them to court and rake them over the coals.”
“Oh,” she says, looking perplexed. “I didn't realize there was a difference.”
I nod. “Yeah, most people think civil law is dry and boring,” I reply. “But it's always satisfying to take on some Fortune 500 company with an army of legal eagles and force them to cough up a massive settlement to pay for their misdeeds.”
“Do you win a lot?”
I can't keep the smile off my face, smarmy though it might be. “Yeah, we win quite a bit,” I reply. “Most of the time, in fact.”
“That's really interesting,” she says. “You seem to really like what you do.”
I nod. “I do.”
“Why is that?”
“I believe in fighting for people who don't normally have a voice. These corporations – they abuse people. Mistreat them badly and then spit them out. Most people don't have the resources to fight back,” I say. “I believe in a fair and equal footing for everybody. It’s sickening how powerful corporations with almost unlimited resources treat people like disposable commodities.”
It's the standard speech I give when someone asks me that question. For now, I think it succinctly conveys the essence of my message. Of my brand. It's a plank in the platform I'm building – one I want to be completely ready when I launch my campaign for elected office.
“That sounds very noble,” she says.
I shrug. “It's what I believe.”
She looks at me for a long moment, the dashboard lights causing her eyes to sparkle, a curious expression on her face. Very few people have the power to make me uncomfortable with nothing more than a gaze. In fact, I think that list is limited to my father and mother – and since Dad is gone, that makes my mother the only person on the planet with that kind of power.
Something about the way Alice is looking at me, disquiets me. It's like she's can see the truth – or insincerity – in my words. It's almost like she can lay me entirely bare.
It's not something I'm used to – and not something I particularly like, to be honest.
“Is it?” she asks. “Is that what you really believe??”
“Of course, it is,” I say. “Why would I say it if it weren't true?'
A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Lots of reasons,” she says. “Maybe because it's a means to an end. A way to further yourself. Advance your career, perhaps.”
A rueful chuckle bubbles out of my throat. The woman is far sharper and more perceptive than I initially gave her credit for.
“Don't get me wrong,” she says, “I believe you when you tell me it's what you believe. I can hear a kernel of truth in it.”
“A kernel of truth?”
She nods. “It's there, but it's a kernel,” she says. “But I hear more in your voice than that. A lot more.”
“Oh? And what it is you hear?” I ask, suddenly feeling oddly defensive. “Enlighten me.”
“I hear naked ambition,” she says. “I hear the lust for something more. Something bigger.”
I laugh. “And what do you think that something is?”
She shakes her head. “I have no idea,” she says. “But I hear it. Oh, I don't doubt that you enjoy taking on these corporations, and I don't doubt that you like helping your clients. Like I said, I hear a kernel of truth in what you said. Some small part of you does believe that. But, there's more to it than that for you.”
Damn. The woman is good. Really good. Maybe I was wrong in my initial assessment of her. She’s not actually the hippy-dippy art teacher, coffee house poet I assumed her to be. She’s just like the shrewd, cold-blooded corporate type my brother favors.
Her blunt dissection of my personality and motives leaves me more than a bit rattled, to be honest. No one, not even Nate, has been able to lay me bare like that before. It's disconcerting. To say the least.
“I have bigger aspirations, that's true,” I admit. “But that doesn't make the work I'm doing any less sincere or valuable.”
“I didn't say it does,” she says. “I'm just throwing my two cents out there. Take it for whatever it's worth.”
I clear my throat and focus on the long strip of darkened road ahead. The fact that this woman can figure me out like that after half an hour is troubling. And yet, at the same time, it adds to her allure. There's obviously a lot more going on beneath the surface of Alice Donnelly than I noticed at first. I find it intriguing. Someone who has that sort of cutting insight is incredibly rare – it’s intoxicating.
I find myself thinking it’s unfortunate that she's my brother's girlfriend and I'll never get to explore the deeper side to the woman.
I pull the car to a stop in the circular driveway in front of the house. Alice is looking at it with a wide-eyed wonder that I can't help but find adorable. I guess she comes from more humble beginnings and isn't used to the kind of wealth my family as amassed.
“This house is amazing,” she says, the note of wonder in her voice matching the expression on her face. “It's like – a castle.”
“I think that's what the architects were going for when they built it,” I say. “It's what attracted my parents to it all those years ago – well before any of us were born.”
“You and Christopher?”
“And Neil,” I reply. “He's the youngest.”
“Wow, three boys,” she says. “I feel sorry for your mom.”
“She put up with a lot, that's for sure,” I say. “But she never hesitated to put us in line when needed.”
“I'm sure that was a lot.”
“For me, yeah. Probably,” I say and laugh. “More so than Christopher, that's for sure. He was always the golden child.”
She nods. “Yeah, that kind of sounds like my sister.”
I turn off the engine and get out of the car. Coming around to the passenger side, I open the door and hold it for her as she slips out. I know better than to ask for her bag, so I let her carry it up the steps. As we go, she's looking around at the house and grounds in stunned disbelief.
The house is beautiful, I can't deny that. It really does look like a medieval castle complete with turrets and spires. Ivy clings to the walls and the grounds are flush with bushes, trees, and flowers. There's even a hedge maze out on the back grounds.
This house is the most extravagant purchase my parents ever made. They have as much money as Bill Gates, but they actually live pretty frugally, all things considered. They don't believe in a lot of opulence or ridiculous displays of wealth – you'll find no gold-plated toilets here.
The door opens before we reach it and Harold, the house manager, is stand
ing there with a warm smile. Harold has been running the house since I was a teenager. He's tall, with thinning hair on the top of his head, but a thick, bushy mustache that nearly covers his mouth – as if he's compensating for what he's missing on top. He's a good man and has always done right by my mom.
“Good evening Mr. Churchill,” he says, his tone formal.
Around guests, it's always Mr. Churchill and never Miles. I've all but given up of trying to break him of this habit at this point. He believes in formality and tradition. And to him, being formal around guests is only proper.
“Good evening Harold,” I say. “May I present Miss Alice Donnelly? She'll be staying with us through Thanksgiving.”
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Donnelly,” he says. “May I take your bag, please?”
“No, I've got it,” she replies meekly. “But, thank you.”
He gives me a frown and a questioning look, but I just shrug my shoulders. What can I say or do? If she doesn't want to give up her bag, I'm not about to wrestle it out of her hands. I can tell it’s messing with his sense of duty and propriety.
“It's okay, Alice,” I say. “Harold isn't going to go running off with it. And if he does, I know where he works.”
She gives me an uneasy smile, but slowly and hesitantly hands it over to Harold. He looks relieved as he accepts her bag and gives her a nod.
“Very good, Miss,” he says, then turns to me. “I've had your room made up, but if either of you need anything, please –”
“Oh, she's not staying with me, Harold,” I say. “This is Christopher's girlfriend and she'll be staying with him.”
A long moment of awkward silence descends over us as Harold's eyes flit between me and Alice. Her cheeks are bright red and she looks like she wants to disappear into a hole somewhere. I chuckle and run a hand through my hair as Harold clears his throat and gives us both a nod.
“Apologies,” he says. “I've obviously made an incorrect assumption.”
“Don't worry about it,” I say and give Alice a wink to try and set her at ease. “We get that all the time, don't we?”
Harold's smile is still uneasy, but he's not as tense as he was a moment ago. “I'll have your brother's room made up immediately,” he says, then turns and disappears quickly.
Alice and I both let out a nervous chuckle and shake our heads. I have to admit, the idea of slipping upstairs with her isn't without its appeal.
Alice turns and catches me looking at her, and I see the color in her cheeks deepen. I quickly avert my gaze and clear my throat. Tension fills the air again, but this time it's joined by a sense of expectation I find strange. This is my brother's girlfriend and I would never consider sleeping with her – as tempting as it might be.
I silently kick my own ass for even entertaining those thoughts. I can't entertain them. I won't. Regardless of how alluring she is, Alice is off limits. The way she looks at me, with a flicker of desire in her eyes, makes me even more tempted.
“Anyway,” I say, just to break the spell of silence and tension enveloping us, “Harold will show you to your room. Just go have a seat in the parlor and he'll escort you in a moment. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“No, I'm fine, thank you,” she says.
“Great,” I say, and motion to the doorway to our right. “Just – go have a seat in there. Make yourself at home.”
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I'm going to bed,” I say. “It's been a long day.”
Harold arrives a moment later and gives us both a smile. “The room is ready for you, Miss Donnelly,” he says. “If you'd be so good as to follow me?”
“Goodnight,” I say.
Her gaze lingers upon me for a moment before she turns and follows Harold to the staircase. As she ascends, she looks over her shoulder at me again and flashes me a small smile. When they reach the top landing and disappear down the corridor, I let out a long breath, immediately feeling the tension drain from my shoulders.
It's going to be a long few days until my brother gets here.
Chapter Five
I seriously can't believe this house. It is amazing. I never would have dreamed I'd find myself spending a few days in a place as gorgeous as this. After following the butler up a grand staircase in the foyer – I can’t believe these people have a freaking butler and a foyer – he leads me down a hallway furnished in a rich hardwood paneling. Lighted sconces line the walls on either side, and there is an amazing array of art hung up as well.
The entire house is beautiful and obviously home to a very wealthy family, but it's all very tasteful and restrained. It's not over the top or grossly opulent.
“So, when exactly will Christopher be here?” I ask.
“He should be arriving Tuesday, I believe,” he replies.
I nod. Tuesday. So, I can spend a couple of days living like one of the rich folks, but then I need to bounce. This is crazy. This might be the craziest stunt I've ever pulled. What in the hell am I doing here? I should have stuck to my plan and gotten out at that truck stop. I never should have listened to the devil on my shoulder.
On the other hand, as I look around at this house, I think I can get behind the idea of living somebody else's life for a couple of days. I just need to think up a solid exit strategy.
Harold leads me into a bedroom that is larger than my entire apartment. My bag is sitting atop the California king-sized bed that dominates the room and all of the furniture is a rich, dark oak. Like the rest of the house, the room is done very tastefully in dark greens and crème colors. A pair of French doors lead out onto a balcony that overlooks a backyard larger than some national parks. Although it's dark, I can see a hedge maze sitting off to one side of the grounds, as well as a dimly lit gazebo next to a pond.
“Is there anything I can get for you, Miss Donnelly?” he asks.
“Umm... no, I think I'm okay,” I reply. “Thank you, Harold.”
“Very good, Miss,” he says. “And should you come to require anything, I am on call twenty-four hours a day. Just use the house phone and dial five-three-eight.”
“Five-three-eight,” I confirm.
“Yes, Miss,” he says. “Call me for anything.”
“Thank you, Harold,” I say. “For everything”
He gives me a warm, generous smile. “Of course.”
And with that, the man turns on his heel and heads out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him. A fire burns in the large fireplace across from the bed, warming the room, but not uncomfortably so. It's pretty chilly outside, so the fire is cozy and welcoming.
I turn and move to the door on my right, flipping on the light to reveal a decadent bathroom. A clawfoot tub sits on a slightly raised platform in front of a wall of frosted glass.
Yeah, I'm definitely going to have to try that out.
With nothing better to do, I draw myself a warm bath, anxious to sink into its warm, comforting depths. I find some luxury bubble bath beneath the sink, so I toss it in and let the suds fill up the tub. As I wait, I shoot my sister a text, letting her know that I was delayed because of work, but not to freak out because I am still coming.
A moment later, my phone chirps with an incoming text. I glance down at the screen and shake my head.
This better not be the prelude to you canceling, Sash. You'll really upset Mom and she doesn't need that in her condition.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly before keying in my response.
I'm not canceling. Just have some business to handle first. Also, Mom is not in any condition – seriously read her medical file.
Setting my phone down on the counter, I quickly strip down, throwing my dress and sweater on the counter, then walk up the steps and slip into the tub. I sink down with a contented sigh, letting the warm water seep into my bones. God, it feels nice. Better than nice, actually. It’s heavenly. Of course, I have a bathtub at home, but it's so small and shallow that I always have to keep my knees drawn up and the wate
r still doesn't fully cover me.
This tub feels more like a hot tub than anything else. A decadent, luxurious hot tub. I close my eyes and lean my head back on the padded headrest.
“Damn, so this is how the one percent lives,” I mutter to myself. “I could really get used to this.”
I'm fully aware that this is a ridiculously stupid stunt and I could be found out at any moment. All it would take to foil my plans is a single phone call.
Part of me thinks I should do the smart thing and get out before I'm caught. But, as the soothing water warms my skin and body, the devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear again, telling me that if that was going to happen, I’d be busted already. It tells me to lay back and relax, to spend a couple of days in luxury. The devil tells me I deserve it. That I've earned it.
Yeah, I've gotten into some of the worst trouble of my life listening to that little voice. At the same time, it’s also given me some of the greatest experiences of my life, so maybe it’s not all bad.
As I lay there, I try to relax and calm my thoughts. All I want to do is unwind and let the tension of the day – the last few months, really – melt away in this pool of warm decadence. All I need now is a masseuse.
Though I'm able to quiet my mind for the most part, images of Miles Churchill keep popping up and interrupting my serenity. It seems like the more I try to push them away, the more vivid the mental image becomes. I see his strong, chiseled jawline, those vibrant green eyes, and that lean, firm body in front of me. As thoughts of Miles flood my mind, my body starts to instinctually respond. Fire ignites between my thighs and a warmth spreads through the center of me.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I imagine what it would feel like to have Miles' strong hands on my body. I slide my own hands over my breasts, running my thumbs over my hard nipples, sending lightning bolts of sensation shooting along my skin.
I slide my hands down my body, imagining that it's Miles' hands instead. I picture him sitting on the edge of the tub, his green eyes sparkling as he stares into mine. I see his hand slip beneath the surface of the water and part my thighs. As I touch myself, I bite back a gasp, but a soft moan escapes me anyway as I picture Fantasy Miles running his fingertips along my pussy.
