by Daisy Banks
“Sure, lead on.” Her heels tapped across the floor, and he caught up to her. As they walked out of the ballroom and he led her down the corridor to the next room he believed would be suitable for the project, he noted one of his strides matched two of hers.
“Excellent. Now this is something special.” She patted the Louis XIV desk in the library before taking a shot.
“I’m pleased you approve.”
She ignored his words, took three more pictures and made notes. “I’d like to see the kitchens?”
The request startled him. “Why? You don’t intend to use them, do you?”
“Please, don’t plan my job for me. The kitchens, Mr. Johansson? Which way?”
“Very well, follow me.” Irritation prickling, he led her out of the library. Her conversation proved nil and she bordered on rude. He ought to have guessed the true magnificence of the house would be wasted on these music industry types.
They descended the green, wrought iron spiral staircase to the kitchens. The rain-dampened ringlets of hair moved as she paced quickly through the door he held for her. The image of those lustrous coils wrapped tight around his hand as he tilted her head back to taste her mouth hovered. Swiveling around to face him, she seemed to pick up his thought, and a further widening of her pupils sent an electric hot flash to his groin. She blinked slowly.
Interesting. The barrier she drew against him when she closed her eyes proved surprising. Whether she knew it or not, she’d raised her hackles. Well, that wouldn’t last long should he choose to take her.
A surge of all the needs he’d subdued through the ages rocked him. Half an hour in her company and his control could be challenged to this level of extremity? Base, lustful instincts bubbled, powerful and infuriating. He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t.
While she glanced about the room, he squashed his thoughts, and though it proved a kind of torment to do so, drank in as much detail of her dainty--though strangely clad--form as he could.
“Maybe we can use this room. Put the main lights on for me?” He did as she asked, and her smile curved her cheek. “Yes, just right. Lovely.” The stylus moved quickly over the computer pad she carried as she made more notes. “Okay, last request. Master bedroom, or the one you think best for us to use. Obviously we don’t want to tear you from your bed when the film crew gets here.” A slight breathy laugh, telling him more than she’d intended, followed her words. She wasn’t immune from him any more than he was from her. She’d absorbed his need as naturally as the air she breathed.
“I’ll show you the main guest room. The master suite is not available. No amount of money could make it so.” He held her green gaze.
“Oh.”
The soft response surprised him. Since her arrival, she’d strode through his home like an advancing army. But let her think what she would. He’d not have her prowling through his most personal space, not with an iPad in her hand. A riot of images of her naked on his bed, her pale skin flushed and rosy with desire, her glossy mouth open in pleasure, her hair a flame on his pillows, rushed through him so he nearly gave up the pretense of humanity and hauled her into his arms. The control he exerted, the result of years of practice, made his palms damp.
She needed to leave.
“This way,” he said, and led her out and along the corridors back to the central stairs.
“Do you actually live in this palace?” she asked.
“Yes, I’ve lived here for some time.” He left it at that.
“Staff?” The camera clicked again.
“A couple of dailies, housekeeper and cook. Neither is here this late today,” he said as they walked up the stairs. Her hand, long nails the same shade as droplets of sweet fresh blood, trailed along the glow of the polished banister. Incredibly provocative.
“They won’t be wanted on the days we film. The band wouldn’t like it. Everyone is vetted before they take part in a shoot.”
“I see. Will the group object to my presence in the house? I, of course, won’t disturb their work.”
“No, that’ll be fine, Mr. Johansson.”
“Here, this is the main guest suite.” He indicated the intricately carved door.
She reached out to cup the polished brass handle.
“Please, go in.” He said no more and waited for her to enter. The enticement of her fragrance had worked on him all the way here, and he wanted to memorize her true scent. He’d know her again anywhere.
The animal stirred within. A smile curved his lips. He’d find her no matter how far away she might be, and when he did, he’d need no introductions.
Holy Angels, not now! Not again. Never!
He’d sworn it, and lived with the oath so long.
She paced about the room, nodding. “Fabulous, just the kind of thing I want. I’ll sort the right soft furnishings.” Her eyes sparkled as she took in the massive four-poster bed with its elaborate drapes, and she snapped more photographs. She tapped out a quick set of notes, and he enjoyed her concentration.
The delicate form of her features intrigued, at odds with her rather brash manner. He forced himself to observe because if he didn’t, the tortuous images of her minus her bizarre outfit might take control and he’d make them a savage reality.
A small wrinkle formed at the corner of her eye with her smile. “Okay, thanks a lot. I think we can certainly say this will be the place to shoot the Timeless film. I’ll email you with all the major details at the beginning of October, though the tech guys will need to visit before I can finalize everything.” She flipped the computer closed. “Franklyn will discuss finance with you. He supervises all that.” A little shrug of her shoulders followed, and he watched like a man starved of beauty. “I don’t ever get involved with the money side of things,” she said.
“So, when can I expect the film crew? Do you have any idea?” Soon, thankfully, she’d leave. He breathed a small sigh of relief, though he still warred with the creature within.
“End of October I would guess, maybe even Halloween. This place is perfect for it. We could have a fantastic Halloween party once we finish the shoot.”
A shiver ran over him. Impossible. Not that night, no matter by what name she called it. There could be no worse night for them to come here. He would be at his weakest, the monster as strong as it could ever be. “I won’t agree to the date.”
“Now, hold on. Franklyn said you were open to reasonable requests,” she said.
“No, Miss Armstrong, not that day, or night,” he snapped, and silenced her.
The air crackled with the challenge she stared back. But he sensed when her opposition disappeared, though he could still scent her unwillingness to acquiesce. An involuntary spasm twitched in his hand. She was so primed for the next step. But he wasn’t, never would be again. “You are ready to leave,” he said.
Her eyes flashed, widening at his tone, and for the first time since she’d stepped into his house, her composure faltered. Perhaps she’d made an intelligent perception, discovered all was not as it appeared.
“You may bring the crew in the night before or after October thirty-first, but not on the thirty-first, Miss Armstrong. I’ll show you downstairs.” A small kernel of warmth grew in him, as she compliantly nodded. He remained in command of himself and his world.
“I’ll need to arrange for the technicians to view, especially the lighting manager,” she said, hurrying after him as he strode down to the hall.
“You may email me possible dates for their visit.” Through the window, rain fell again from the lowering sky. As she zipped her bag closed, the sound dragged his gaze back to her.
Luscious, lovely, so youthful and ripe, she flaunted her vitality. The thought tore through him so he had to clear his throat.
She must leave, and now.
He helped her on with the still damp coat, and while she tugged the b
elt tight about her, had to resist the urge to touch it.
“Bye, Mr. Johansson, I’m sure we’ll meet again,” she said, offering her delicate hand.
The skin of her fingers, soft and supple, the warm, lace covered palm rested in his a second too long. “Goodbye,” he said with a last look, drinking in the wide, coal black pupils centered in the dazzling green irises of her eyes. A picture of them stayed with him as he closed the door behind her, and her fragrance still pooled about him.
Hunger for her rose, hot and almost unstoppable. He shook his head. “We’ll not meet again if I can help it. Not tonight, not later. Not ever would be better.”
Miss Armstrong would be forgotten, in a few weeks. Perhaps by the end of the month he’d not even remember the delicate flush on her cheek or the fiery corkscrew curls twining over her marble-pale shoulder.
Fixated as a drowning man watching a life belt drift away, he stared through the window at her shimmering crimson heels as she skittered down the driveway to her car.
