by Teri Wilson
Yes. Nice.
“You’ll come with me, then?” He gave the end of the scarf a tug and tried not to succumb to the impulse to pull her into his arms. No doubt such a maneuver wouldn’t have been well received.
“Look at you, Donovan. You’re wearing a suit. I can’t just pull on a coat and boots and accompany you to some mysterious location.”
He pulled at the knot in his tie and loosened it, sliding the strip of silk from around his neck. After unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt, he tossed the tie over Elizabeth’s shoulder. It landed on her bed. “Is this better?”
“Are you going to keep shedding articles of clothing until I agree to come with you?” She waved her hand toward the tie, dangling seductively from the corner of the enormous bed. “Is that your strategy?”
As strategies went, it was a bloody good one. “Don’t put ideas in my head.”
She gave him a soulful look. He could still see the sorrow etched in her features, but the shimmer of tears had vanished from her eyes, as had the anger. They were luminous now. A man could lose himself in eyes like those. Perhaps the man in question already had.
Elizabeth swallowed. Donovan could see the rise and fall of it in the slender column of her throat. Something told him she wasn’t thinking about the state of her employment at the moment.
“I’ll be ready in five minutes,” she said.
11
Elizabeth settled into the supple leather passenger seat of Donovan’s Aston Martin as he closed her door, jogged to the driver’s side and climbed in behind the steering wheel. It was so strange to see him there, sitting to her right. Elizabeth realized that while she’d ridden in the back of a taxicab or two—and the Jaguar, of course—this was her first time in the front seat of a British vehicle. She wondered if she’d ever grow accustomed to it.
Then Donovan started the ignition, and she forgot all about where she was sitting. The engine roared to life, and she felt as though she were in a James Bond movie.
Jenna would positively die.
“Are you comfortable?” Donovan smiled at her as he turned off Sumner Place and headed toward the High Street.
“Very much so.” She begrudgingly admitted to herself there were indeed inoffensive perks that came with being wealthy. “Where are we going?”
Donovan shook his head, and his lips curved into a mischievous grin. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”
“Still?”
“It’s a surprise.” He maneuvered the car past the South Kensington tube station. “Don’t worry, though. It’s not far.”
Elizabeth’s stomach flipped, which she attributed to the way Donovan’s car hugged the road. She’d been fired. Permanently. Romance was the last thing on her mind. Or so she told herself.
“Almost there, in fact.” Donovan turned right onto Brompton Road. A wall of slick storefronts flanked the street on either side.
Names like Emporio Armani, Mulberry and L.K.Bennett were spelled out in tasteful block letters on the white molding of the shops. The farther up the street they went, the more impressive the names. It all looked vaguely familiar, like Fifth Avenue in New York, but with a decidedly English flair.
Surely Donovan wasn’t taking her shopping in an effort to cheer her up. If he thought buying her things would make her forget about losing her job, he was sorely mistaken. Even worse, it would mean he didn’t understand her at all.
But why would he understand someone like her? They were from completely different worlds.
She squeezed her eyes closed. Donovan’s money was the last thing she wanted to think about right now. She’d done enough thinking about aristocrats, their outlandish sums of money and all the power it could buy since she’d opened that letter from the Barclay School. Sitting in the ridiculously comfortable sports car, Elizabeth wanted to forget all of it.
She opened her eyes, glanced at Donovan and was hit with the unexpected realization that she wanted the man beside her to know her, to really see her in all her damaged glory. And she wanted him to like what he saw. But the stores zipping past them looked exactly like the places Grant Markham’s crowd would frequent. It made her feel sick inside.
The lump in Elizabeth’s throat—omnipresent since the arrival of her termination letter—grew so thick she could scarcely swallow. I don’t belong here.
The car slowed as they crossed Hans Road and approached an enormous building that looked more like a castle than a store. By all appearances, it took up an entire square city block.
“Here we are.” Donovan winked at her and climbed out from behind the wheel.
He left the engine running and issued a few instructions to a gloved attendant before coming around to open her door. Elizabeth sat, rooted to the spot, as she read the name on the green canopies that ran up and down the full length of the building.
Harrods.
“Elizabeth?” Donovan crouched down so they were at eye level. “Can I help you out of the car?”
She tried to make herself move, but couldn’t. “One of your favorite places in London is Harrods?”
“In a way.” He was perfectly calm, showing no signs of impatience, as if having to pry a woman out of a car at the Harrods valet was perfectly normal. Then, as if he could sense the root of her apprehension, he added, “We’re not here to shop, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“We’re not?” Elizabeth wondered what else people did at Harrods besides shop. Wasn’t it a store?
“No.” Donovan’s gaze turned tender, serious. Elizabeth felt as if he could see straight through to her heart. “Trust me.”
She rose from her seat, even though part of her wanted to insist he take her back to the Barrows’. A big part. She didn’t know which was more frightening—the prospect of Donovan taking her shopping at London’s most celebrated retail establishment or that penetrating gaze of his.
The green awning overhead whipped in the wind. Elizabeth shivered. The sky had grown dark, and a fine mist was beginning to swirl in the fall air.
She looked up just as the exterior of the building lit up in a grand display of twinkling lights. “Wow. Look at all those Christmas lights.”
Donovan lifted his gaze. “They do this every evening. It is rather spectacular, isn’t it?” He looked back down at her, with the lights reflecting in his eyes, making them sparkle. Or maybe they sparkled all on their own. “In Britain those are called fairy lights.”
Fairy lights. She liked the sound of that, as if something magical might happen. Maybe Harrods wouldn’t be so awful after all.
“Shall we go in?” He gestured toward the door. “No one will bite. I promise.”
“So long as there’s no biting...” She let him usher her inside.
The interior looked every bit as much like a castle as the outside. Enormous chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting rays of light on the most elaborate crown molding Elizabeth had ever seen. The floor was cool marble tile, just like in the Barrows’ foyer, with diamond-shaped bits of ebony scattered about.
And everything was oversize, as if an entire city existed inside rather than a single store. She didn’t know where to look first.
Fortunately, Donovan appeared to know exactly where he was going.
“This way.” He placed his hand near the small of her back and guided her beneath a sign pointing them toward the lift.
They stepped inside the elevator, a complex affair of mirrors and gold leaf with yet another chandelier hanging overhead. The doors closed, trapping them inside, and immediately the atmosphere seemed more intimate.
Elizabeth looked at Donovan for what seemed like a long, electrically charged moment. Did he feel it, too? This restlessness that crept into her veins at his nearness?
He glanced at her mouth, cleared his throat and pressed the button marked w
ith a gold number four.
Elizabeth smiled to herself. So he did feel it. Good. That evened the playing field a bit. There was clearly something wrong with both of them. Why would they feel even a flicker of attraction for one another when half the time they barely tolerated one another?
It wasn’t attraction, she reasoned. It was nerves, plain and simple. He made her nervous, with his ill temper and brooding, dark looks.
The trouble was, he didn’t look quite so brooding at the moment. The mirrors reflected his ridiculously handsome face in all different directions. Elizabeth found it a bit overwhelming.
“What’s on the fourth floor?” she managed to squeak.
“You’ll see soon enough.” He gave her a lopsided smile, the one that always made her weak in the knees. Mirrored back at her five times over, it was a wonder she remained upright.
She hadn’t a clue where he was taking her or what awaited them on the mysterious fourth floor, but she had to admit Donovan’s surprise outing was helping her frame of mind. Two or three minutes had gone by without her giving any thought to the letter. It was a small, but significant, victory.
The elevator doors slid open. Donovan held them open with one hand. “After you.”
As she stepped out, the first thing Elizabeth noticed was the relative hush of the fourth floor, as opposed to the swarm of shoppers and tourists on the ground level. The second thing to capture her attention was the smell. The air carried a soothing scent, one she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“Mmm.” She inhaled. “It smells wonderful up here. What’s that fragrance? Lavender?”
“It’s the smell of luxury.” Donovan winked at her. “With maybe a bit of wet-dog smell tossed in for good measure.”
“Wet-dog smell?”
He waved his hand toward the right with a flourish. “Here we are.”
Elizabeth turned past the smooth white walls of the elevator’s vestibule to see a grand black-and-white-tile entryway flanked by two enormous Dalmatian statues. The spotted dogs, easily nine feet high, wore rhinestone crowns. They sat up on their giant hind legs. One held a scepter in its paw, and the other held a flag with the Harrods insignia. Above their heads, black script letters spelled out Harrods Pet Kingdom.
“Oh, my.” Elizabeth stared at the lettering. What could possibly be found in a kingdom for pets? She was almost embarrassed at how giddy she suddenly felt, like a five-year-old about to see Santa for the first time.
Donovan grinned, obviously delighted at her reaction. “I told you to trust me.”
“You sure did.” She craned her neck to peek past the Dalmatians standing guard and saw a miniature four-poster bed, strikingly similar to the one she slept in at the Barrows’, standing on a tall pedestal in the center of the room. Tiny paw prints were scattered on the pink duvet, and a layer of fine tulle netting enveloped the whole display. “Is that a dog bed? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Donovan laughed. “Follow me. The best part is past the sales area.”
They wove through a labyrinth of dog furniture, clothing and accessories the likes of which Elizabeth had never imagined. There was even an area with collars that sparkled with what she assumed were genuine diamonds, judging by the presence of a pair of armed guards whose size rivaled that of the Dalmatians.
“And here it is.” Donovan guided her to a wall of windows that overlooked what appeared to be another world entirely. “Harrods Pet Spa.”
She’d never seen anything like it, even in the ritzy Upper East Side area of New York, where doggy spas and day cares were a dime a dozen. The area was divided into several sections. On the far left was the gym, where a long-legged Irish setter ran on a treadmill, its fiery copper coat waving in the breeze of a wind machine. Next to the gym was a bathing area, where the sight of rubber duckies floating in the bathwater reduced Elizabeth to a fit of giggles. To the far right, a few dogs were being treated to therapeutic massages.
“What’s going on over there?” She pointed to a corgi with something creamy covering its face. The dog was busy trying to lick the mysterious substance off.
Donovan answered matter-of-factly, “The corgi? He’s getting a facial.”
She wondered briefly if the corgi belonged to the Queen, since the monarch was known to have a passel of them at Buckingham Palace. “A dog facial?”
The dog’s tongue appeared to be getting longer by the second with the effort it took to reach his nose. Whatever was in the facial must have tasted delicious.
Donovan nodded. “Blueberry. It’s a favorite around here. Lawrence brought Figgy to get one once, and she smelled like a blueberry muffin for nearly a week.”
“Lawrence brought Figgy?” She gave him a playful poke in the ribs. “Yeah, right.”
“That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” His voice dropped a notch at her touch. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with a little pampering now and then.”
His brown eyes grew dark, smoldering, and Elizabeth felt an immediate urge to touch him again.
What was wrong with her? This was Donovan Darcy standing in front of her. The same man who’d laughed in her face when she’d told him she’d been fired.
“I suppose not.” Her throat went dry. They’d gone from laughter to meaningful silence in a heartbeat. “Thank you, Donovan.”
“For what?” He took a step closer.
She could feel the heat coming off him, warming her skin. Surprisingly, it was like stepping into the sunshine after a long season of rain. “For bringing me here and for knowing...”
“Knowing?” He was closer now. So close she could see flecks of gold in his eyes and a tiny scar just above the corner of his suddenly quite kissable mouth.
A voice from somewhere inside her mind screamed, Slow down! Turn and walk away!
Too late, she thought.
“Knowing just what I needed.” Then, standing in the middle of Harrods Pet Spa, she realized she’d gotten exactly what she wished for. Against all odds, Donovan Darcy saw her. He understood her. And on a day when she’d lost her last remaining shred of dignity, he’d known exactly what it took to put a smile back on her face.
She fixed her gaze with his and saw a longing in his eyes so palpable she thought she might be able to reach out and touch it. That same longing throbbed with every beat of her pulse, every intake of breath.
The voice in her head warning of impending doom grew quieter, until it became barely more than a whisper.
She reached for Donovan’s hand. He released a long, sultry sigh as she intertwined her fingers with his.
They stood for several long moments, hand in hand, until Donovan brushed the hair from her face and whispered, “You’re welcome.”
* * *
Donovan hadn’t expected to find himself hand in hand with Elizabeth Scott at Harrods Pet Spa, of all places. He’d brought her here because he knew it couldn’t fail to cheer her up. The last thing he anticipated was for her to reach for him.
Not that he was complaining. It was a surprise, that was all. And certainly more pleasant than arguing with her.
Her skin was soft as a rose petal but somehow still hot as fire against his own, which seemed appropriate given Elizabeth’s spirited disposition. And those curves of hers, so close he could reach out and touch them...they looked positively delectable. From where he was standing, he could just catch the scent of her hair. He closed his eyes and breathed in its fresh, citrusy fragrance.
She smelled like oranges and fresh lemons, he realized. Sweet, yet with a tangy bite.
Again, appropriate.
He opened his eyes and found the treadmill empty. A pet-spa attendant was pulling shades down over the windows.
Damn.
“I think we’re shutting this place down,” he said under his breath.
“It lo
oks that way.” She gazed up at him, her expression just a touch wistful.
He was wary of moving, certain they stood on some secret hallowed ground where he and Elizabeth weren’t liable to engage in another war of words.
Then a thought struck him. Why leave? The Pet Spa might be shutting down, but this was Harrods.
He bent to whisper in her ear, “There’s a champagne bar downstairs.”
“Of course there is.” She raised a knowing eyebrow, dropped his hand and nodded in the direction of a dog bed fashioned to look like a giant blue box from Tiffany’s. “In fact, I’ll bet there are a couple of champagne bars downstairs.”
Donovan shrugged. “I believe there are three total.”
He missed her touch.
God, what had gotten into him? It had been all of two seconds since he’d touched her, and he was already growing itchy. It was preposterous.
“Three?” She laughed.
Donovan frowned. She’d pulled even farther away. He could no longer smell her hair, which he found particularly vexing.
“Yes, three.” He planted his hand in the small of her back and steered her toward the lift before she could protest. “Come along, then.”
The lift was agony. The small space between them crackled with electricity, as it had before. This time, however, Donovan found himself questioning why he didn’t just pull her into his arms and kiss her. He’d certainly given the prospect a fair amount of consideration. More than once. And now they seemed to have reached a place where it wouldn’t seem altogether inappropriate.
If he kissed her now, would he be taking advantage of the situation? Just hours ago Elizabeth had been so upset she’d sequestered herself in her bedroom at the Barrows’. Of all the myriad times he’d imagined tasting Elizabeth Scott’s lips—and those times were growing more and more frequent, to be sure—she’d always been clearheaded, fully aware of what she was doing. Certainly a willing participant.
In some of his wilder fantasies, more than willing.
He was overthinking things, something he’d never been prone to do. He was Donovan Darcy, for God’s sake. If he wanted to kiss a woman, he simply took her in his arms and did it.
