by Zee Monodee
She would need clothes. And with her flat still locked, she’d need new ones.
Yet, what did he know of women’s clothes? If he waited for Jane to wake up and take her to the shops, she’d kick a fuss. Hell hath no fury like a woman with a bee in her bonnet, and Jane had proved she could raise Hell when she wanted.
He needed help, and who could he turn to?
Rory. His PA was bound to know something.
The lad picked up on the first ring.
“’Morning, Rory.”
“Good morning, sir. I’m afraid I haven’t finished the draft you asked for just yet. It’ll be ready by noon, though.”
Draft? What the hell? Then it hit him. He never called unless to inquire about work. No wonder Rory had jumped right in with his status report. “Leave that for now. I need you to do something for me.”
“Sure, sir.”
He could hear the incredulity in his PA’s voice.
“I need you to go out and buy some clothes for me and then drop them by my place before eleven.”
Nine o’clock, he read on his watch. Plenty of time for Rory to run the errand.
“At which tailor on Savile Row, sir?”
“Not for me, Rory. It’s for—” he paused, taking a deep breath. He never thought he’d say this, to Rory of all people. “A woman.”
The lad remained silent.
“Rory?”
“Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat. “What do you want me to get?”
Wasn’t that obvious?
“Well, clothes.”
“What kind of clothes? And at what shop?”
What did he know of women’s shops, other than Victoria’s Secret and La Senza? “Something like a dress to wear for lunch.”
“What kind of dress?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Casual? Business-style? Country outing?” Rory spoke with infinite patience.
Michael didn’t allow himself to think too much. If he did, he’d ask himself what mire he was getting sucked in. “Lunch in the country.”
“Casual, then. Classy clothes or more flirty?”
“Classy.” Jane was always well-attired.
“Okay. How much to spend?”
“Money’s not an issue.”
“Do the shops on Bond Street sound good?”
He had no idea, yet Bond Street was renowned for its high-end outlets, wasn’t it? “That’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” Rory sounded as if he was ticking off questions on a list. “What size?”
How would he figure this out? “Normal?”
Rory sighed at the other end. “Can you be a bit more precise? What does this normal look like?”
He was baffled. “Well, she’s a normal-looking woman. Not curvy, but a normal size.”
“Okay.”
Again, the patience, which was starting to drive him mad.
“Tall or petite?”
“For Heaven’s sake! What does it matter?”
He yearned to slap the phone down. Surely, women’s clothing couldn’t be so complicated. That’s why he stuck with bespoke. No fuss over size, then.
“Sorry, sir, but it does make a difference. I have five sisters, and they and my mum are always going on about how sizes vary between tall and petite—”
“Tall. She’s at least five-foot-ten.”
“Okay. Shoes, too, sir?”
He was ready to strangle the little sod. “Just get me a bloody outfit, will you?”
With that, he swiped the screen to end the call.
Thank goodness he’d never had to shop for a woman. Who knew there were so many details to take care of? He stuck to flowers, usually. Tall or petite and all that fuss. It was a relief that men had tailors who handled all that nonsense.
He really hoped Rory would find proper clothes for Jane, provided his assessment of her ‘size’ was good.
And when he thought about it, he knew how he could describe her. Jane had the kind of tall, lithe body that had made the reputation of the supermodels of the nineties era, women he’d fantasized about when he’d been a teenager. She had long legs, which had been exposed by her miniskirt, with a trim and toned figure. Sculptural, and definitely model-like, before fashion had declared anorexic waifs the norm.
What did it mean, then, that Jane embodied almost everything he’d physically looked for in a woman?
Michael wasn’t so sure of his footing all of a sudden, and this rattled his nerves.
Talk of getting lost in another dimension. He had a feeling he had stepped into a warp zone the minute he’d met Jane Smithers.
Chapter Six
Jane awoke to peaceful silence. At first reluctant to open her eyes, she popped them wide when she recalled where she was. In Michael’s house. Fortunately, not Michael’s bed.
Sitting up straight, she glanced around, trying to locate a clock. None to be found, so she hustled out of bed and reached for her handbag. Strange. Her phone wasn’t there. Had she lost it?
Just her luck. Cold sweat broke out along her spine. She’d be doomed without it. All her contacts and schedules were on there. A headache built behind her forehead when she tried to recall the last time she had used the phone. Had she even put it in her bag before leaving for the club? No, she must have. She always went everywhere with her phone.
So where could it be?
The pain was gaining ground on her senses, racking up her nausea. She had to put an end to it if she didn’t want to end up puking from an empty stomach soon. How? Being in her condition, she doubted she could take painkillers. Maybe some cold water would help, shock her system and all that.
She got up and trudged to the bathroom. As she trained her gaze over the spacious setting, she had to stifle her awe. Michael’s house was breath-taking, but to have even the guest bathroom reek of such grandeur baffled her. The sink and the tub were of black marble, both sunken into dark grey granite and highlighted by strategically placed white tiles. The shower stall beckoned with its smooth, clear glass walls, promising massaging jets in their confines.
Tempting as that seemed, her first priority should be to find out what time it was. She had a feeling she had overslept. How come, when she was usually an erratic sleeper who could never keep her eyes shut beyond daybreak? Okay, never mind the blackout curtains fully drawn in the bedroom. Her internal clock always seemed geared to sunrise.
Reaching the sink, she opened the tap and splashed her face with cold water. A small grey kit on the side of the wide table caught her attention; it held a toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste. She stifled a chuckle. Why did the bathroom remind her of the business class on British Airways?
After brushing her teeth and a trip to the loo, she stopped on the threshold of the doorway to the bedroom, catching sight of her image in the mirror.
The grey T-shirt she wore could melt into the classy background. Did Michael dress for the colour scheme of his house? Not very likely. He struck her more as a man of good taste, albeit on the classic, conservative side. His clothes felt good, but probably not as good as the real Michael would feel.
Jane saw a blush creep up her cheeks in the reflection as mortification grabbed her. What was she doing thinking of him in such terms? He was helping her for the night, full stop.
She moved away from the mirror. A soft cloud of his scent snuggled around her, wreaking havoc on her senses. Damn. How could a simple smell affect her so much? She’d never had that problem at the shops, in the aisles that sold men’s colognes.
Shaking off this weird, upsetting emotion, she exited the room, hoping to find a clock somewhere. She poked her nose around the corridor, but none there. The doors to the other guest rooms were closed, and she didn’t dare pry them open. She wasn’t that bad-mannered, was she? Reaching the end of the passage, she encountered a gaping doorway. Peeking in, she came across a plush yet minimalist sitting room. It appeared to connect to a bedroom on the other side.
Michael’s chambers. Of course, he occupie
d the main suite.
Her legs tingled, desperate to go in and discover this very private sanctum of his. The place where he slept could shed so much light on the man he was. The image of Michael in bed, his big body sprawled on a crisp white sheet, stark naked, assailed her mind.
She gasped and jumped back. All her blood rushed to her knees, and she propped a hand against the wall to steady herself, closing her eyes to regain her balance.
The image in her head refused to disappear, becoming even sharper. She saw him move his legs—languid, sensual strokes crumpling the sheet underneath him. Jane suddenly wished she could trade places with the bed linen. What would it be like to experience his hair-roughened limbs caressing her thighs as he threw one leg over her from behind and pulled her back to his chest …?
Stop it!
Her libido failed to hear the rebuke, instead making her think of his strong arms closing around her while he dipped his head and the tip of his tongue traced the contours of her collarbone.
A shiver racked through her. She parted her lips and sucked in a deep breath. The oxygen worked its way into her foggy brain and allowed her to gain a semblance of a grip on her runaway hormones.
She opened her eyes and peeled her back from the wall. Shaking her head, she cursed herself for being so nosy. If she hadn’t been poking around, never would she have been led to think of Michael in such … arousing situations. What did she know of the way he’d make love to a woman? And what did she know whether dark hair dusted his thighs and legs? She had never seen him undressed. Not for lack of wanting—
She slapped her cheek at the wayward thoughts. The heat and sting suffusing her face helped bring her focus back to the here and now.
A clock. Yes, that’s what she was looking for. Bound to be one downstairs, at least in the kitchen. She spotted the stairway not far from where she was and started down the steps.
As her bare foot landed on the polished wood floor of the entry hall, she picked up the sounds of conversation very close to her. Glancing up, she became stuck to her place when she encountered Michael and a young lad who seemed not more than twenty in the foyer.
Both men stopped talking and turned to look at her. Michael didn’t say a word, but she was more concerned for the boy. His mouth gaped open, and Jane realized she wore nothing but a large T-shirt that covered her only to mid-thigh. The garment also had a way of softly clinging to her body, and her newly found breasts probably made the fabric poke away from her chest.
What a picture she presented, exactly that of the mistress who’d just spent the night. She wanted to run, maybe race back up the stairs, but that would seem childish, wouldn’t it?
“Had a good night’s sleep?”
Michael had a hint of laughter in his tone.
At least he didn’t say any more than that. Yet, she could see the twinkle in his eyes; he was enjoying himself. The sod. She glared at him.
He chuckled, before turning to the lad. “There are no flies in my house, but you’d better close that mouth, Rory.”
Rory? Unless he knew a lot of men named Rory, this bloke could only be Michael’s PA.
“Jane, this is Rory O’Hanlon. I guess you both know each other.” He turned to his assistant. “Rory, this is Jane Smithers.”
There, he’d done it. Thrown her right from the pan into the fire. Didn’t he know she had a professional relationship with his PA? How would she ever face him again, even over the phone?
The lad’s mouth fell open even more as his eyes grew wide. She could imagine what was going on in his head: Michael Rinaldi was shagging his estranged father’s PA. She hoped Rory wasn’t an office gossip. Making an escape seemed essential, suddenly.
Wrenching her feet from the floor, she excused herself and tore down to the opened doorway on the left. She heard the two men pick up their conversation and sought to put as much distance as possible between her and them.
Veering to avoid bumping into the furniture, she found herself in a very large reception area also set up as a living room. An open arch led to another similar lounge, and from this room, another arch led into a dining room big enough to accommodate twenty-four guests at the massive glass-topped table. An L-shaped reception area. Why didn’t that surprise her in such a big house?
She continued on her impromptu tour. The dining room opened onto a corridor that allowed access to a big study and a rather large family room equipped with a huge flat screen and an impressive surround system. Boys’ toys, good to watch the Premiership games. The room had two doors, the one inside leading to the back of the house. She went through it, taking a turn into a spacious, modern kitchen with a built-in breakfast corner and a centre island as big as an SUV.
Goodness, Michael Rinaldi lived in style and did nothing in halves. The view at the back of the kitchen caught her attention, and she stepped towards the wide window bay. Flickering reflections shimmered, and she gasped when she drew nearer.
A swimming pool the size of the front room at her flat glimmered in the bright light of the morning. Enclosed on three sides by glass walls, the view stretched far and wide, encompassing an enormous decked terrace beyond and leading towards an extensive stretch of turf and garden.
Her turn to gape now. She’d seen her share of luxurious houses in her life, but never one as spectacular as this. This dwelling was like a slice of Heaven in the drudgery and chaos of London.
“Contemplating skinny-dipping?”
She whirled around to find Michael at the island, his hip resting against a tall wooden stool, his arms crossed in front of him. He was dressed differently today, with less formality. Words died in her throat.
He was the picture of elegant masculine insouciance in his long-sleeved, buttoned-down slate grey shirt and dark blue jeans. No, not jeans. A man like Michael would wear denims. She also didn’t miss the slight sardonic lift of his mouth, as if he were having fun. At her expense. She recalled his words then, and embarrassment flamed through her.
She turned her head so he wouldn’t see her face, but one glance up and she saw her image outlined in the glass. Michael wouldn’t miss even one hint of the emotions that were surely dancing across her features. Damn it, was there really no way out around him? She bristled.
“How dare you introduce me to your PA dressed as I am?”
She saw him shrug in the reflection.
“Wasn’t any less than what you wore to that club last night.”
The gall of the man. So he thought he could lecture her? He sounded like a jealous boyfriend, taking umbrage at the way she dressed and how other men saw her. He had another think coming if he thought he could act so mighty around her.
“Michael, I work with Rory. How am I going to face him now?”
“Same as you always have. Work is work. Full stop.”
He really thought that? Just went to show how well she had him down—he was a compartmentalizing specialist. She grumbled under her breath, trying her best not to let the soft cursing escalate into an ear-splitting scream.
“So, you like my house?”
She snapped out of her fury-red fog. “What?”
He left his position at the island to come towards her. With every step he took, the hint of his cologne grew more pronounced, until she could feel the heat emanating off his body when he stopped a few inches behind her.
“I saw the longing on your face when you were looking out. I gather the house made a good impression on you.”
What was he going on about the stupid mansion when all she could focus on was his proximity to her? In this place, on this turf, she was in unknown territory, making her lose her grasp on her emotions.
“You like it.”
His voice thrummed low, close to her ear.
She nodded, and he smiled.
“Good. Come on out.”
He took her hand and slid the glass pane open. They both stepped into the pool area, Michael leading her forward until they were out on the deck.
The cool air of late Ma
rch, with a slight hint of warmth from the bright sun, flickered over her skin. She shivered, bringing her hands up to hug her sides.
“You’re cold?” He turned to her.
She shook her head. The air wasn’t warm, but one could forget about the climate in such a breath-taking setting. Lush grass covered an expanse as wide as the house’s surface. Tall trees ran along the sides of the garden, sheltering it from prying eyes, ensconcing the green terrain as a private sanctuary. Nothing could mar the perfection of this place.
This was a house meant for children, with a big dog running around.
“This place needs a dog,” Jane heard herself saying.
She caught herself just in time before adding that a brood of lads should be playing ball or rugby and getting dirty with mud and grass stains in the garden. What would she have done? Fuelled Michael’s warped notion of paternity even more, that’s what it would’ve achieved.
He shrugged. “Never had the time to look after one.”
Aha! She had her argument. “So how do you plan to fit a child into your life, then?”
He faced her, and she bit her tongue. She’d gone too far. When would she learn it didn’t pay to goad him?
“You make time, Jane.”
His voice was calm, as if his answer was the most obvious thing in the world.
Her mouth went dry. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“You think so?”
How could he be so calm and unruffled?
“How can you want to do this?”
He moved in front of her, his large frame blocking the sun. Barefoot, she had to crane her neck to look into his face. Once again, she found herself in that strange mind-set that left her feeling tiny and vulnerable before him.
“Just think about this, Jane.” He paused. “If we had met a year from now, you’d have been a single mother with a baby in tow. If I decided I wanted to be a part of your lives, no one would find it strange, would they?”
She remained silent, waiting for him to continue.
“The only difference now is that your child isn’t born.”
He had a point. Grudgingly, she had to admit it. She wanted to argue with him still, but words escaped her when she tried to make a sound.
