He’s so close I’m sure he must be able to hear the thundering of my heart; it is surpassed only by the storm outside.
‘My parents thought I would—at most—become an accountant. Like my father and his father before him. I was always good at numbers. It fair skittled them when I told them I’d bought my first company.’
‘Yeah, I can see how that would bowl them over.’
His laugh is husky. He brushes his lips against the soft skin at the base of my throat, chasing the wildly beating pulse-point with his tongue. I moan, deep in my mouth, the sound strangled by my own hot, thick breath.
‘You make it sound easy. Like you didn’t want to be an accountant so you did this instead.’
‘This?’ He laughs, flicking the strap of my dress so it falls haphazardly down my arm, revealing my shoulder to him.
His kiss is sweet, like nectar. He finds the exposed skin and possesses it as only Jack Grant can, gliding his mouth over it, making me feel I have never before been kissed. It is at once intimate and simple and my back arches forward. Or backwards. Who can tell? The normal rules of gravity and physics seem not to apply.
‘How do you know my family dates back to the Magna Carta?’ I ask, though the words are squeezed tight from my chest, not quite coming out clearly.
But he hears. He understands. ‘I looked you up,’ he says unapologetically.
‘You...?’
His mouth drops lower and at the same time he lifts my hand, drags the kiss to my inner wrist. I squeeze my eyes shut as he finds another pulse-point, tracing it with his tongue.
‘I searched you on the internet,’ he confirms, dropping my hand gently and cupping my arse, pulling me closer to him.
I wrap my legs around his waist. ‘Why?’
‘Because you surprised me the other night. I realised I should have known this stuff.’
‘What stuff?’
‘All of it. Your dynastic birthright.’
I laugh.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Just... Only you would want to know more and decide to look it up rather than ask.’
‘Asking would have taken time,’ he says with an unapologetic lift of his broad strong shoulders.
‘And we don’t have time?’
‘I’m impatient.’ He grins.
‘I had no idea.’ Sarcasm is rich in my murmured tone.
His hands are on my knees and then they’re tracing higher, his fingertips barely brushing my flesh as he searches for the softness of my inner thighs.
‘Is that weird?’
I pause, concentration almost impossible. ‘Is what weird?’
His lips are buzzing mine, just the smallest hint of contact making every nerve ending in my body sing. ‘That I ran an internet search on you.’
‘Oh.’ I frown. ‘It should be. But, no. For you it makes sense.’
His laugh is breathed across my skin, sending it into a break-out of goose bumps.
‘Because I’m weird?’
‘Because you’re you,’ I correct. ‘Domineering, determined, somewhat wonderful you.’
He’s still for a moment. Frozen by the compliment he didn’t expect. Then he relaxes again, his lips are on my skin and my heart is flying out of my body, soaring above me. This is so right. So perfect. Out of nowhere I am in heaven.
‘Are you saying you haven’t done a search on me?’ he teases, his hands lifting to the zip at the back of my dress and catching it lower, snagging it over my spine. My body is hypersensitive; I feel every single kink of his touch.
I have. I’ve looked him up and his wife. Something I am naturally hesitant to confess.
‘I applied to work for you,’ I say with a shrug. ‘Of course I did.’
His laugh shows he knows me to be lying. Or at least being liberal with the truth.
‘Why did you move your office from the City?’ The question is blurted out of me before I even realise I’ve been wondering.
He pauses, the zip halfway down my back, his mouth so close to mine I want to push up and find him. But he’s still, and the question hangs between us, and I realise I do want to hear the answer.
‘Sorry?’
‘I just... Speaking of questions...’ My throat thumps as I swallow. ‘Is it because of Lucy?’
His expression flashes with something. Anguish?
I shake my head quickly. ‘Forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No.’ It’s a gravelled denial. ‘It’s fine.’
But I might as well have lashed him with a stick dipped in lava.
‘It was because of Lucy. She was sick at the end. I set my home up so I could be near her all the time. The room...the bedroom near my office... That was her room.’
Oh, God. How did I not know that? His little ‘den of sin’ held his dying wife’s sickbed.
A shudder rips through me as the macabre sadness of it all washes over me.
‘After she died I just... I didn’t want life to go back to normal. I resented the implication that it would.’
He expels an angry sigh and now his fingers are pushing my zip down almost dispassionately.
‘There’s no textbook on grief.’
‘Of course there’s not.’
‘But I expected to cope better than I did.’
His eyes sweep shut. He’s shielding himself from me, but at least he keeps talking. That’s enough. It has to be enough.
‘We had months to prepare. To brace ourselves. She was ready. Her life at the end was...’ He changes direction, as though he’s somehow betraying Lucy. ‘She was ready to go. My therapist tells me I spent so long being strong for Lucy that I had nothing left to give myself.’
‘You have a therapist?’
‘I did. Until he spouted that piece of pretty bullshit. As if there’s a finite amount of support to give. As if I should have ignored Lucy’s needs in favour of my own.’
‘I don’t think he meant that. Lucy’s sickness must have been draining on you. I can imagine that you spent so much of your energy focussing on what she needed that you had no idea what to do with yourself once she passed.’
‘It shook my world,’ he said simply.
I’m so sorry for him. But I don’t say that because I’ve said it before. My dress is loose around my waist. I’m not wearing a bra and his hands run up my sides and cup my breasts as though holding them is his only form of salvation.
‘It still does,’ I say softly.
‘It’s different now.’
He runs his thumb over my nipple, his eyes drawn downwards, his attention focussed on the physicality of my body, rather than me.
‘Different how?’ I need to know. I want to understand.
‘I grieve for her, but I can function. The hardest days aren’t the ones that fill me with sadness.’
‘No?’
‘No, Gemma.’
He lifts me up, off the bench, wrapping me around him as he walks through the apartment, towards his bedroom. But I don’t want him to close this conversation down.
‘What are the hardest days?’ I push as he shoulders the door inwards.
He lays me down on the bed and I scramble into a sitting position, not caring that my dress is simply a belt at my hips and my body is exposed to him completely.
‘Days like this. Days when I am happy and distracted. Days when I forget to remember her. The worst days now are the days when I realise I haven’t thought of her at all. Days like today, when all I’ve had room for on my mind is you.’
My heart turns over and, God, I am the worst kind of human because I delight in his admittance even as I realise I am triumphing over a dead woman.
Telling myself Lucy would want him to be happy, I stand up onto the tips of my toes so I can kiss him, and then pull him backwards onto the bed.
‘Being happy doesn’t mean you loved her any less,’ I promise him softly as I flick his buttons open and run my fingertips over his chest. ‘It just means you’re human and that time is moving on. It’s no
rmal. It’s natural.’
He doesn’t answer, but his kiss is all the response I need. It is sweet and it is gentle and it is a promise from his body that I know he’s not yet ready to make with his words.
* * *
The first week Gemma came to work for me I pushed her like a demon. I was so sick of the string of quitters before her that I’d developed a foolproof way to flush them out. I started them at six o’clock each morning, demanding different sets of information in advance and then what I actually required. This was to see how they thought on their feet.
She was amazing.
When she didn’t have a ready answer she would procure it easily and without fuss. She was honest about what she didn’t know and she stared me down when I tried to imply that her inefficiencies were a result of a flaw in her preparation.
She worked late, travelled to Paris with me on a minute’s notice and never once complained.
And then one day I went into her office and found her asleep, just like she is now. Her head dropped on the desk, her hair like golden silk across her keyboard.
That was the first time I told myself she was off-limits. I wanted her even then. My body responded instantly, and in my mind I fantasised about acting on my desire. Making her mine. But it would have been a transient pleasure. And even then, when I hardly knew her, I knew she was a rare, fascinating object—someone I could never touch. Never hurt.
Yet here I am.
Here she is.
At some point during the night, after I’d fallen asleep, Gemma must have stirred and taken herself back to her room, respecting those unspoken boundaries we’ve erected even after I told her more about myself than I ever have another soul.
And that angers me. It angers me that she accepts those limitations even now.
It is not yet dawn, but the sky is glistening with the promise of morning and a hint of golden light steals through the blinds, marking her cheek and her arm. I wonder what it would be like to lift the cover and lie beside her. To wrap her to my chest and kiss her awake softly. To stir her body with mine.
But the day is breaking, and she is just as off-limits to me now as she was two years ago.
Chapter Eleven
My plane lands at seven. How soon can you be at my place?
I SMILE AT the text but my heart sinks. A week after I returned from Australia and Jack is almost home. A problem with the winery in New Zealand required his urgent personal attention, and as a result I have been in sexual purgatory for seven days and nights.
I am aching for him physically and, yes, I miss him. I miss him so much I can no longer doubt just what form my feelings take.
I love him.
I am in love with him.
And, just like Grandma described, it has hit me out of nowhere. It is a realisation and it is also an incontrovertible law of nature now, as unquestionable and rock-solid as gravity, helium, oxygen and rain.
I run a hand down my pale green sheath dress, feeling its silkiness and wishing like hell it was his hands, not mine, on my body.
Tomorrow morning...?
I wait for a moment, but he doesn’t reply. Jack has Wi-Fi enabled on his jet, and he’s always in contact, so I don’t doubt he’s got the message. I imagine his lips drawing down at the corners as he contemplates the fact that I’m not simply fitting in with what he’s suggested.
By ‘tomorrow morning’ do you mean 7.05 p.m.?
I laugh and shake my head, reaching for my bronzer and giving my face one last flush of colour. My make-up is exquisite—I didn’t do it, so I can say that. My hair has been styled into a rather vintage crimp, and a diamond clip is tethered just above one ear, adding to the Great Gatsby look.
I grab a stole and slip into my shoes, then scoop up my phone.
I wish. It’s my parents’ anniversary party, remember?
I thrust the phone into my bag and press it beneath my arm.
My driver is waiting. Not Hughes. My driver. The one I use when I have family stuff on and Mum and Dad like to know I’m observing the little rituals that matter to them. Like being chauffeured.
‘Hey...’ I smile distractedly, sliding into the back seat. I look at my phone.
Shit. I forgot. Skip it?
I laugh.
I wish.
What are you wearing?
I grin, lift the phone up and take a shot of myself. I examine it quickly—one chin, eyes open, passably attractive—and then send it to him.
His response is almost immediate.
Smoking hot, Lady Gemma.
My heart turns over in my chest and for a mini-second I contemplate blowing the party off—to hell with the consequences—and going to Jack instead. My parents would be furious, but I suspect it would be worth it...
I text him back.
What are YOU wearing?
A few seconds later I am rewarded with a photo of him. I stare at the screen and my heart thumps hard in my chest. He is gorgeous. So beautiful. So dangerously, darkly, distractingly beautiful.
I stare at his eyes and feel as though I really am looking at him.
You’re flying in a SUIT? What happened to comfort?
He doesn’t respond immediately and I put my phone into my bag, letting my eyes catch up with the passing scenery. The anniversary celebration is to be at The Ritz—where else?—and the car eats up the distance from Hampstead into the West End, skirting Kensington Gardens on one side.
I check my phone again as we pull to a stop—nothing.
Disappointment fills me, but I will see him soon. Tomorrow. And we’ll make up for lost time.
Just looking at that photo is enough to get me off. But I need more than that. I need to be held by him. To feel his arms wrapping around me, to look up at him and know that his heart is beating for mine...
‘Madam.’ The driver opens the door and I smile at him, stepping out into the cool night air.
Flashes go off in my face. I’m unprepared. Foolishly, really, given the high-profile nature of the party and the venue that’s designed to draw attention. I just haven’t been focussing on it at all. I plaster a smile on my face as I dip my head forward and clip towards the large glass doors.
The party is in The Music Room. I’ve been there once before, for my grandfather’s birthday, I remember as I step over the threshold. The room is the very definition of elegance, with gold and pink highlights, enormous floral arrangements and curtains that look like they weigh a tonne.
I’m late. Only ten minutes or so, but the room is full. The music is a perfectly refined string quartet, and my parents are at the end of a receiving line, like a scene from a Jane Austen book.
I pause, wondering if I can sneak away before they see me, go and find Grandma. I’d put money on her being near the bar...
But my mother’s eyes meet mine and her hand lifts, waving me over.
I swear under my breath, plastering a smile on my face. ‘Mum.’ I kiss her cheek. ‘You look lovely.’
She does. Mum is always stunning. And now, after her jaunting about—rather, her international philanthropy—she’s acquired a caramel tan. Her outfit is almost bridal—a cream lace prom dress that falls to just below her knees. Dad is in a tux.
‘Welcome home,’ I say.
‘Oh, yes. That’s right. We haven’t seen you since we got back.’ Her lips pucker in disapproval.
‘I’ve been in Australia,’ I explain awkwardly, then wish I hadn’t. Why the heck am I apologising? It’s not like they’ve been tripping over themselves to organise a reunion. ‘Was it a good trip?’
My father grumbles something I don’t quite catch.
‘Quite.’ Mother nods. ‘We’re thinking of going again next year—aren’t we, darling?’
His look is one of long-suffering tolerance. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Is Grandma here?’
My mother nods, her eyes flitting across the room. ‘In that direction.’
‘I’ll go and check on her,’ I say, as though it’s a servi
ce I can offer when in fact I am serving only myself.
‘Is your speech ready, darling?’ Mother calls to me as I leave.
I wince. Shit. Why didn’t I remember I’d have to do a speech?
I cut through the crowd until my eyes land on Grandma. Her wiry figure is perfectly framed by a jet-black dress and a bolero that has a fine silver thread to it. She’s wearing dark silk flowers at the collar and she manages to look rather funereal.
I laugh as I approach. ‘Hey!’
‘Oh, thank fuck. Someone I actually like.’
Several people hear her curse and move away disapprovingly. I grin, kissing her papery cheek.
‘Tell me about it... I think this is an even duller crowd than usual.’ I tap the bar, my eyes catching the bartender’s. ‘Champagne.’
He pours a glass of Bollinger and hands it to me. Grandma signals for a top-up and I wonder, with a disguised smile, how many glasses she’s already knocked back. She can hold her liquor like a sailor, and age isn’t slowing that down.
‘Where’s my koala?’
‘Your...huh?’
‘You went to Australia, didn’t you?’ she asks impatiently.
‘Oh. Yeah, right. Guess what? Turns out you do have to go bush to see one.’
‘And let me guess? You were working too hard for that?’
‘Mmm...’
It wasn’t all work. My body flushes with remembered pleasure. Jack’s touch was worth travelling to the other side of the world for.
‘I did see dolphins from Jack’s balcony, though. They were amazing. A whole pod of them, just gliding and...frolicking.’
‘They were on the balcony?’
‘No, Grandma, they were in the harbour.’ I laugh.
‘Obviously, dear.’ She takes another sip of champagne. ‘Remember your grandfather’s birthday?’
I nod. ‘I was thinking of it when I came in.’
‘He was so happy that night. To be surrounded by his loved ones.’ She sighs, her eyes a little watery as she looks around the room. ‘The mayor’s here.’
I follow her gaze. ‘Yes. Dad and he have been doing some work together, I think.’
Grandma’s brows lift skyward, as if imbuing even that with a response of disapproval. I sip my champagne.
‘You had a good time, then?’
Off Limits Page 14
