“So, what brought you to East Windsor?” Keith Devonshire’s accent, on the other hand, was velvet. Expensive velvet.
Diamond-studded velvet.
Mel swallowed hard at the question, and answered ambiguously. “A mistake.”
“Oh.” Most English people would’ve said something like, Oh, my apologies, by now. That Keith Devonshire didn’t, gave her a certain pleasure, because it meant he probably wasn’t apologetic. And if he wasn’t apologetic, that connoted that he was confident and self-assured. A man who knows what he wants.
For the minutest instant, right there on the sidewalk, she pondered it—pondered being with him—just as she’d pondered, in her bathtub, being with all manner of men while reading H.M. Ward or Rachel van Dyken to a soothing glass of red wine (or, better, a large cup of Sainsbury’s Triple Chocolate Sundae; of which she kept a few hidden in the freezer, in front of her cigarettes... Yes, defrosting them was a bitch.)
She pondered the feel of the chest under his dress shirt, the warmth of the jewels between his legs, being massaged while they engorged under her grasp. She imagined him entering her, overwhelming her soft body with his hard one. She imagined the scent of his hair, his cologne, as he rode her, long and deep, on her bed. She imagined what it would be like to have her little apartment to herself, the wine now in the lounge instead of near the bath, and being shared by him and her. She imagined him undressing her, cupping her unfirm breast in his hand and telling her it was the most exquisite breast he’d ever seen. Then she imagined his mouth, his lips, surrounding the large disc of her areola, sucking on it until she felt it all the way up to the side of her neck and ear...
She imagined many things, because the one thing Melissa Daniels had learned a long time ago, is that imagining it hurts nobody.
She smiled, because she knew it would never happen. It was not the first time she’d imagined such a thing, with such a man. OK, fine, not such a man exactly because, well, such a man as Keith Devonshire she hadn’t seen in ten years for sure! Maybe in the movies, yes, but not in real life! But she could go on imagining it, just as she’d done many a night before.
She could never hurt Jacob. And, just like she’d given up smoking when he’d been inside her, so could she give up men so long as Jake was being raised by her.
Melissa Daniels was no slut, no one-nighter. And maybe that was her mistake. Because that attitude had left her alone in her bathtub, with her books, and her wine, or her ice cream.
For seven years, eight months, and eleven days. As long as Jake had been alive.
-6-
She killed her cigarette, turned to go inside. Keith Devonshire grabbed her wrist. It stopped her heart. “I asked if you needed anything inside.” His grip was firm, a little painful.
She wrested her wrist away from him because she didn’t like to feel controlled by anyone. “No, I was fine. But why did you ask? You don’t look like the kind who works at Bookworms.”
“I don’t. I own it.”
Melissa wondered whether “it” meant this particular store, or the entire chain. As in: the entire national chain, with stores opening up globally now, last she’d heard. She swallowed. She was pretty sure it wasn’t just this store.
TWO
THE THRILL
-1-
Keith Devonshire had it all—noble blood, noble money, noble manners. He owned the largest bookstore chain this side of the Atlantic, a publishing house that made him millions a year (millions of Pounds Sterling, which was far better than millions of Dollars US.) He’d made several more millions as a VC investor—Keith always knew a good business idea when he saw one. He owned almost as much property as the Queen. OK, not quite that much, but it sure felt like it. Because what good is so much property if you don’t need it? He’d sold it and bought it and sold it and bought it more times than he cared to count.
He was bored.
He was a self-made man. He came from old money, but the wealth he had now was all his. He’d paid his startup capital back to his father, with interest, despite his family’s protests. Keith Devonshire didn’t like to owe anyone anything. He liked to know that what he had was his, and that he’d earned it.
He was strong, well-built, handsome. He’d been with all manner of women—young, mature, blonde, brunette, raven-haired, blue-eyed, green-eyed, larger, smaller, attractive, mediocre...
Every one of them a jewel in his eyes. He felt like Julio Iglesias sometimes.
Keith Devonshire was so bored with life that he was puzzled as to why, standing on this pavement and looking at this brown-eyed and blonde Melissa Daniels, gave him a thrill the likes of which he last remembered feeling way back in High School. The last time he’d felt such a thrill was when he’d learned just how much of an effect his athletic build had on girls like Belinda Buchanan, the absolutely most gorgeous female in all of Windsor High—a blue-eyed cheerleader-type. She’d approached him, called him behind the cricket pavilion, and then...well...turned him into a man.
Keith had been shy in those days, perhaps even a little red-cheeked at the incident. But his confidence grew quickly—a few broken hearts does that to someone. And the one thing Belinda Buchanan had been, was a heartbreaker.
Keith had no clue what Love actually was. Buchanan’s mouth around certain forbidden parts of him had made him think, in his foolish youth, that maybe that had been love. But he was a fool to have thought it. He knew this now. He knew it three months after that first incident under the pavilion, too.
Three months they had dated. And three months she’d cuckolded him.
Never again.
He showed her. Oh did he show her. He became the Man About Town—Windsor High’s Most Likely to Play Don Juan in a Movie; Most Likely to Break a Girl’s Heart; Most Likely to Leave a Girl Wanting.
Belinda Buchanan was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Because she taught him that love makes you blind, and blind people walk into things.
Oh, no. Keith’s eyes were wide open now. They had been for two decades.
And how many women had he been with in all that time? Shew. Even thinking of it gave him sweats.
But how many of them had given him that thrill, that sense of power, that nervous anticipation before the chase?
There was no sweat broken on that question. There’d been Buchanan. She’d been a thrill, of course. The thrill of one’s first. His second had been a thrill, because it was a way of “getting back” at his first. You know, that feeling you get when you’re on the school grounds, wondering if it’s a good time to kiss Number Two because Number One might be watching; wondering if Number Two will be bitchy enough to start a fight—an actual claw and nail fight!—with Number One.
He’d loved that thrill, and the battles Cindy Nathans (Number Two) and Belinda Buchanan had fought (nails and claws and all!) had made his days back then. Ahhh, the memories.
But then? Number Three had been merely, well...another girl. And so went the rest of High School. Number four, five, six. Ten...
There’d been the thrill of meeting up with an older girl, a more experienced one. That had been a minor thrill.
His next big thrill came when he seduced one of his college professors. It was one night only, and he suffered for it for the rest of the year, because Miss Somerset felt that, in order to not feel like she was breaking any rules and favoring him in any way, she needed to be extra strict with his grades. So strict that it was the only class he almost failed for the year.
Then again, maybe that had nothing to do with her desire to be extra strict, but more with the way he’d left things with her.
The way Buchanan had left him was child’s play compared to what he later did to Miss Somerset.
Yes, he’d committed his sins, and suffered for them. It had gone both ways—women playing him, and him playing them in turn. It’s a dirty game, and he was sick of playing it. Nights of bringing women home had been relegated to nights of sitting back and reading a book or perusing the newspaper in
his study while sipping on a glass of Johnnie Walker.
He felt old, and he shouldn’t feel old because he was only thirty-seven.
But what is a man without his sex-drive?
Of course, the idea of “settling down” and “meeting the one” had crossed his mind as jokes on society. Keith Devonshire knew very well that there was no such thing. With the amount of women he’d been in the sack with, he knew for sure that there was no such thing as meeting one women and staying with her forever!
Because there’s no thrill in that. And the one thing Keith always lived for, looked for, yearned for—whether it be in business or sex or sport or just high-stakes poker—it was The Thrill.
Business had lost its thrill.
Women had lost their thrill.
Life itself had lost its thrill.
Until his hand had connected with the wrist of this Melissa Daniels, and he saw the way her lips parted when she’d seen him, and how her magnificent chest rose as she took in a deep breath, how her lightly-curled hair bounced as she’d made a swift turn to face him. Life had lost its thrill until he saw the gentle smirk on her face, until he almost even heard that deep gasp of sudden desire from her despite the bustling crowd. It had lost its thrill until she’d closed her mouth, frowned at his hand when he’d held it, stood back indignantly, and then ripped it from his grasp like so much tissue paper.
Melissa Daniels, he could see, took shit from no one.
And that was thrilling as hell.
-2-
She thanked him for the lighter again, turned suddenly, and then stalked into the currently over-populated Bookworms store.
Melissa’s ass was a work of art, Keith noted. It wasn’t so much the size of it as it was how she carried it, a wide sway and swish as she catwalked in her high heels through a parting crowd. It made him think of Roger Rabbit’s girlfriend. Only...sexier.
Standing out there in the cold, Melissa’s head disappearing further into the store as he looked after her, Keith Devonshire felt himself smile. Because she still had his coat on. But even if she didn’t, he’d find another excuse to go after her.
He wanted her. He didn’t know why he wanted her, only that he did.
She’d thrilled him. Maybe it was because she seemed so certain of herself. Sure, she’d nearly swooned in the store. Who wouldn’t? Breathing from an exhaust pipe was probably easier than breathing inside Bookworms at the moment. E.L. James had that kind of sway in this town. The combined body heat of her fans in there was insufferable, and Bookworms didn’t have the air conditioning necessary to handle it. Air Conditioning in East Windsor, England? Pft! What a joke.
Maybe it was Melissa’s casualness outside as she’d lit up her ciggy, or perhaps it had been her disinterest in him. Most women would’ve at least asked him how he’d started the business or made some sort of effort at conversation with him.
But Mizz Daniels? Nothing!
He smiled wider, and peered over the crowd’s heads into the back, into the kids’ section. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there. And there was no way out of this place except through the front door.
Keith Devonshire stuck his hands in his pants pockets, and he waited.
-3-
Although not original, his move was still effective—tried and tested.
She got outside with her son. By the looks of their bags, they’d both snagged two or three books each. He wondered a second what she might be reading. She didn’t go for an E.L. James autograph, so maybe she wasn’t into the hot stuff. Danielle Steele fan? Nora Roberts? J.K. Rowling?
He tried to gauge her, tried to figure her out. She was a single mother—no ring on her finger gave that away.
A little irate still from the wrist-grab earlier, she stood in front of him, looking up at him with liquid eyes the color of fresh hay. “I’m sorry, I took your coat.”
She took it off, gave it to him. He shook her hand, and slid his card into it. On it, he’d written his personal number, and a note saying, “Call me.” When she tried to look at it, he squeezed her hand, shook his head slightly and made the smallest of eye movements toward her son.
She understood: The boy might ask questions, so she put the card in her purse, and walked off, little boy in hand.
Keith watched her ass as she crossed the street, his mouth watering, his...manhood...reacting...
Oh, yes, he wanted her. But not just like that. Not just sex. He’d been there, done that. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from her exactly, but he knew that a good chase was part of it.
Part of him hoped she wouldn’t be an easy catch. Something told him she wouldn’t be.
-4-
Keith walked into Bookworms and headed to the cashier. Mrs. Wilmore was an older lady who’d worked most of her life there. Fear always glinted in her eyes every time she saw him, and he didn’t understand why. He tried to smile at her, to be polite. She was an invaluable assistant, did her job well, so why did she fret so much every time he approached her?
“Mrs. Wilmore,” he said, trying his best to smile.
Mrs. Wilmore noted that Keith Devonshire would never have an innocent smile. His was the smile of power, of control, of a man who could change lives across the country with one signature, or a single nod or shake of the head. His was a sturdy smile, a tough one.
He made her nervous, there was no question about it. “Mis—Mister Devonshire.”
“There was a young lady who purchased a number of books with her son a few moments ago—”
“Ah, yes. Miss Daniels, sir.”
“You know her?”
“Yes, she is a regular here. She...” Mrs. Wilmore blushed, and then she stopped speaking. She looked down embarrassedly. Keith noted her discomfort. There’s a lot that can be said about a person by looking at the kinds of books she reads. Keith could tell, without even looking at the computer screen that faced Mrs. Wilmore, that Melissa Daniels was probably a New Adult fan—or perhaps even a Sylvia Day reader.
But she hadn’t drooled and salivated at the sight of E.L. James in the room. Then again, isn’t it Grey that they salivate for?
“So she is a Club Member, then?” Keith asked Mrs. Wilmore, who, he noted, had begun to tremble ever so slightly.
“Yes, sir. Platinum. She reads, uhm, a fair amount.” Platinum members had to buy at least a book a week. It was his experience that people who did that didn’t just stack them unread in a library. Well, not for long at least.
He decided it would be best to not pry any further. Mrs. Wilmore and this Daniels were probably friends, probably discussed tea flavors while Daniels completed her purchases.
“Will that be all, sir?” Mrs. Wilmore asked, becoming agitated at the growing crowd forming at her counter, each person in it holding all three Fifty Shades books, and an endless number of Sylvia Day books.
Keith Devonshire stepped backing, not oblivious to the women standing around him as he did so, mouths open, staring at him. Mrs. Wilmore actually had to get the first shopper’s attention. “Miss!” he heard her say irately. “Miss, will that be all?” Mrs. Wilmore was speaking loudly.
“Oh, uhm...(giggle giggle)...yes, sorry, I was...uhm...distracted...” And then a few more giggles from other women.
Keith stepped away. Things like this had lost their thrill for him already many years ago. He moved into a corner of the store, away from the mob seeking James’s autograph, and pulled out his phone. He logged into the Membership administration site and looked Melissa Daniels up. He saw her telephone number, as well as a link to view her reading habits. He didn’t click it, although he was technically within his rights to. But he did add her number to his contacts.
If she didn’t call him in a week, he’d call her.
-5-
His mother called while he was driving home. “Honey, are we all set for Easter Sunday?”
Through his Lexus’s speaker-phone, Keith Devonshire said, “Yes, mother dearest. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Easter was two weeks
away.
“Do I sense a tone of sarcasm in your voice, young man? I know you may be rich and famous and powerful by now, but I am still your mother.”
And sometimes my boss, he thought to himself. Keith loved his mother very much. What he didn’t love was: “Mum, you know I’m more than happy to drive down to Brighton and see you and father and join in the lavish Easter Hunt. What I’m not happy about is dreading who you might be planning to set me up with when I get there this year.”
There was silence on the line. Keith imagined his mother’s stoic face, poised and proud and, although seemingly stern, actually full of love and concern for him and his welfare.
He waited her out.
Finally, she huffed out, “Well, the young lady I’ve invited to come over this time is one who I’m sure you’d more than love to spend time with. She’s from good breeding, is attractive, and knows her fish from her steak knife, which is more than I can say for some of the girls you—”
“Mother!” Keith was mildly stern. “You promised you wouldn’t comment on my choice of lifestyle anymore.”
He heard her moan. “Fine!”
Keith made a turn into a long country road, a narrow one where two cars barely fit. And one where he could really floor it! He loved its curves, the tree branches hanging down ominously over the blacktop; loved the sound of his car’s engine as it voomed and—
“Keith Langton Devonshire, are you speeding!?”
Keith looked at the odometer—a little under ninety miles an hour. “Not at all, mother.” He made a sharp turn and heard the faintest screech of rubber. What he wouldn’t give to smell its burn right now... “Now, tell me about this girl.”
His mother told him about Delilah Ramsey.
-6-
Easter Sundae (Hot Holidays Series Book Two) Page 2
