by Annie West
‘Where do you spend most of your time?’ she asked as Flynn led her through another sumptuous sitting room in neutral tones to a dining room that seated twenty.
‘Me?’ His brows lifted. ‘The master suite, I suppose. I work long hours and only come home to sleep.’
‘Ah. I see.’ No wonder the apartment felt more like a glamorous hotel than a home.
He cupped her face, his touch warm. ‘Though that will change.’ His voice took on that husky, sensual quality that set ribbons of heat unfurling through her.
‘Sleep is overrated.’
Ava adored it when Flynn looked at her like that, as if nothing mattered but what they shared. She reached up and palmed his jaw, enjoying the scrape of bristles against her skin and the tantalising hint of the outdoors that seemed to be a scent innate to him.
‘Perhaps it’s time you showed me the master suite.’
For answer, he shepherded her past a sleek office and a well-equipped gym into a vast bedroom.
The floor was acres of polished wood. Huge windows looked on to the City of London. The walls were just a shade on the chic side of steel-grey, and accents of black and white turned the room into a statement of designer elegance, perfect and impersonal.
Ava’s gaze swept around, seeking bookcases, photos, mementoes. But there was nothing personal on display. Not even a book on the bedside table.
She frowned. She’d expected something. This felt curiously empty. As if Flynn had no life here at all.
The thought struck that perhaps he lived for his work. But that didn’t tally with the man she’d fallen in love with in Paris and Prague. There had to be another explanation.
Slowly she turned, taking in the crisp perfection of the wide bed, the cool, bordering on cold colours, the lack of softness. She stopped, her breath jamming in her chest then expelling in an audible whoosh. Her pulse racketed.
On the far side of the room, facing the bed, was a huge oil painting—the one thing in this pristine room not stylishly contemporary. It was rich and unashamedly beautiful, the ornate gilt frame enhancing rather than detracting from the wash of golden light in the scene.
Ava stepped closer, then stopped, her heart pumping hard against her ribs. She felt strangely wobbly.
‘My father got rid of this years ago.’
Michael Cavendish had disdained the picture, despite the money spent on its commission—or not spent, if the artist was to be believed. He’d maintained her father had reneged on payment and threatened court action.
Ava didn’t know what had happened in the end—just that after one short week in Frayne Hall the painting had been sent back and her father had growled about it for months. He’d never taken it well when he didn’t get precisely what he wanted.
Ava’s sympathies had been with the artist. She’d have bet her then empty purse he hadn’t won his battle for compensation. Her father had been a master at manipulating deals to suit himself.
‘How did you find it?’
‘I sourced it at an auction.’
She moved closer, mesmerised by what the artist had captured. Frayne Hall, lit by early-morning light, glowed like a dream of bucolic England. Even the mock gothic towers, added in the nineteenth century, complemented rather than mocked the much older bones of the building. Light glinted off huge mullioned windows and the scene looked idyllic.
Frayne Hall as it should have been, Ava thought.
Anyone intimate with family life inside its mellow stone walls ten years ago would have painted a very different picture. There should at least have been storm clouds and lightning tearing open the sky.
Yet even with rancid memories surfacing Ava was drawn. Her family might have been rotten at the core, but the Hall was a beautiful old place. Generations of her mother’s family had been born, had loved and died under its roof. Maybe that was why she felt this connection to it, despite the memories time hadn’t erased.
‘You like it?’ Flynn spoke from just behind her.
Ava nodded, surprising herself. ‘I do. It looks...’
She couldn’t think of the word. Appealing...solid. As if her father’s reign there had been the merest blip, soon forgotten. As if the old place had survived and moved on.
She wished she were as unmarked by that time as the old house.
‘I’m glad you approve.’
She swung round, reading satisfaction on Flynn’s face.
‘You bought it for me?’
Nothing would surprise her. Not after the lengths Flynn had gone to to make their wedding a romantic dream. Her mind boggled at the cost and organisation required to arrange everything so speedily and exquisitely.
Obviously Flynn didn’t know how much she’d hated life at Frayne Hall. The Cavendishes had been experts at projecting the perfect family image, even in front of servants. Of course some must have guessed, but perhaps not Flynn’s mother, who’d spent her time in the kitchen, or his dad who’d worked outdoors.
Or maybe his mother had kept those details from her son. Ava remembered Mrs Marshall’s quiet kindness whenever as a child she’d escaped to Frayne Hall’s cavernous kitchen. Ava had always been drawn to her, with her comfortable air of quiet competence and understanding.
‘Flynn?’
‘I thought you might like it,’ he said at last.
‘I’m surprised Rupert didn’t mention seeing it in a sale catalogue. He’s interested in the market.’ As an artist, Rupe kept abreast of what was selling.
Flynn took a moment to answer. ‘Actually, I saw it some years ago and...’ He shrugged. ‘It appealed.’
Ava regarded him curiously. ‘Appealed to you enough to hang it on your bedroom wall?’
Something bristled, some sixth sense, prickling her skin. Instinct told her she was missing something. What were the chances a painting of her old home, no matter how beautifully executed, should so appeal to Flynn?
Then realisation hit. ‘Of course. The estate was your childhood home too. Lots of happy memories for you there.’
Ava imagined him spending long, lazy summer days exploring the grounds, enjoying freedoms she’d rarely been permitted. He’d run wild in the forest, always up to no good, her father had said. But Ava had envied him even when he’d had to spend time helping his dad, maintaining the pristine lawns and formal gardens.
Flynn’s mouth hooked up at the corner in a smile that wasn’t a smile. ‘Lots of memories, certainly.’
Ava tilted her head, trying to place that look, that tone. It wasn’t happiness.
‘Flynn?’ She moved closer, grasping his arm. Beneath his jacket his bicep was taut. ‘What’s wrong?’
Was it crazy to imagine shadows in those dark eyes?
He stared down at her and Ava had the strangest sensation that she looked into a stranger’s gaze. Then he shrugged.
‘Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s perfect.’ He looked at the painting and this time his smile was genuine.
‘But there was something, wasn’t there?’ If something bothered Flynn she wanted to know. How could she support him if she didn’t understand? Ava stroked her hand through his too short hair, its plush softness inviting.
He turned to her again, his hand capturing hers. He pressed her palm to his lips, kissing her there, making heat pool in her belly.
‘My memories of Frayne Hall aren’t all good, that’s all.’
‘Of course.’ Ava should have realised. ‘Your father...’
Flynn nodded. ‘He died the Christmas I turned sixteen.’
‘That’s something we have in common. My mother died when I was sixteen. But you’d moved away by then.’
‘I still came back.’
It was Ava’s turn to nod. Flynn had always returned to visit his mother. She’d envied them their closeness, the love they’d obv
iously shared. ‘Your mother was always so pleased to have you home.’
The Marshalls’ relationship had reinforced all that had been wrong with her family. When they’d got together it had been to impress her father’s VIP ‘friends’ and associates.
For a week before the glittering winter ball Michael Cavendish had always hosted an open house for those he wanted to impress. Every member of the family had to be at their best, projecting the perfect image—or face the consequences.
She remembered the year Rupe, then just a kid, had caught a stomach bug and vomited over the polished shoes of a very important banker. Their father had made his life hell for weeks.
Worse was an earlier memory, from a night when she’d sneaked out of bed to catch a glimpse of the ball. Ava had seen her mother, soignée and perfect in silk and pearls, but her smile had been wrong as she’d talked with one of her husband’s friends. The man had stood too close, his hands moving over her in a way little Ava had known wasn’t right. But Michael Cavendish, right beside them, pretended not to notice.
The scene had scared Ava. For she’d seen fear in her mother’s eyes and known something was badly wrong.
It was only years later that she’d understood.
Her heart hammered.
What would have happened the night of that last ball if Flynn hadn’t come back to visit his mother? If it hadn’t been he who’d found Ava in her wrecked car? She shuddered, old fears crowding.
‘Ava?’ Flynn wrapped his other arm around her, holding her close. ‘What is it?’
She sank into his heat, loving the feeling of safety Flynn gave her. After years of looking after herself it was amazing how wonderful it felt to lean on someone else just a little. To know he loved her.
‘Nothing important.’ When his frown didn’t shift she said, ‘Not all my memories of the Hall are good either. But that doesn’t matter now.’
Should she unburden herself about her father, or that last fraught night at the Hall? Maybe Flynn had some inkling her family hadn’t been all her father had wanted it to appear. But her father was dead and the past with him. He couldn’t hurt her now. She’d worked so hard to put all that behind her and look forward. Surely the past was better buried—especially now, when she was so happy? She didn’t want anything to ruin this.
‘You’re trembling.’ Flynn’s hold tightened.
‘Maybe you could soothe me.’ Ava pressed closer, deliberately shifting against his groin.
His crooked smile ignited now familiar fire.
‘How would you like to be soothed?’ His voice was hot chocolate laced with brandy, his eyes heavy-lidded.
‘Make love to me.’
Ava stood on tiptoe, planting her mouth on his, slicking her tongue along his lips till he opened and let her in. She sighed at the blissful sense of rightness she always felt when they kissed.
Flynn hugged her close and she felt his body’s instant response. She smiled against his mouth.
‘I want you, Flynn. Now.’
Eagerly she lifted one leg up around his hip and his hand clamped her there. Desire slammed into her. A second later his other hand was hauling up her other leg, holding her off the ground, her feminine heat centred against his erection. She locked her ankles behind him, revelling in his easy strength.
‘Yes...’
It was a triumphant hiss. She needed him now. The blast of arousal was too strong to ignore or to wait. Ava dragged his mouth to hers, kissing him as if it had been a lifetime, not mere hours since they’d made love.
Flynn made her insatiable. For the fireworks and the rockets. But also for that sense of oneness she’d only ever experienced with him—the knowledge that she shared herself, body and soul, with the one man in the world she’d ever love. The one man who loved her for herself.
She kissed him with all the pent-up passion of a woman who’d spent a lifetime hiding her feelings—a woman only now learning to glory in the freedom to love and be loved.
Flynn groaned, his fingers digging into her. She felt the wall at her back as he used it to leverage her into a better position. She was caught between it and him, unable and not wanting to move as desire peaked.
His kiss turned ferocious, devouring her, and she gloried in it. To be so desired was incredibly exciting. It made her feel powerful.
One big hand slid up her thigh, roughly pushing her skirt higher, baring her. Through her laboured breathing she heard something tear and shivered voluptuously.
‘Yes. Like that.’ She arched her head back as his mouth dipped to her throat and all her senses sang. There was something incredibly arousing about Flynn’s sheer strength and hunger. She needed him hard and fast, just the two of them and the raw passion they shared.
‘Take me here. Like this.’
Flynn dragged his mouth away with a final scrape of teeth on flesh that made her quiver deep in her womb. Then eyes like fathomless night met hers. His mouth was open, dragging in air, and she knew he saw the hectic colour in her face, the hungry glitter in her eyes.
It took a second for her to realise his hands had stopped their upward progress. That he stood unmoving, merely supporting her as she rubbed herself against him.
‘Flynn?’
‘Let’s do this properly.’ He swung her around, away from the wall, holding her to him as he paced to the bed.
‘Properly?’ She was at fever-pitch.
Then she felt the mattress at her back as he lowered her gently onto the bed. She clung, trying to draw him down, but he broke her hold to stand over her.
‘Flynn! I need you!’ Outrage and loss made her voice uneven. She felt bereft.
‘Soon.’ He tore his shirt off to reveal that magnificent torso she routinely used as a pillow.
Some of her distress evaporated as he shucked his shoes and undid his belt. But that didn’t diminish her urgency. Need was a living force, writhing within her.
‘Why did you stop?’
‘Because I want it to be good for you.’
He came down onto the bed, reaching for her breast. His touch was gentle, the merest brush of fingertips across her nipple through her top, yet she was wound so tight it made her arch almost off the bed.
‘It was good for me before.’ She clutched him to her, turning her body into his.
‘But this will be better. Trust me.’
He dipped his head and Ava was lost.
Later, much later, Ava lay naked against him. Flynn had brought her to climax several times. He’d been tender and clever and passionate and her body was so deliciously sated she felt like she’d never move again.
Her husband was a wonderful, generous lover, always ensuring she was satisfied. Her heart thudded. More than satisfied.
She rubbed her hand over the smooth curve of his shoulder and nuzzled closer, drawing in the man musk scent of his hot skin.
She was incredibly lucky.
So why did she feel that little niggle of—no, not discontent —curiosity, maybe? It wasn’t that she wanted rough sex. But earlier, when she’d felt the rising force of carnal need between them, when she’d thought for once Flynn would give in to that primitive urge and take her with all the force and hunger she’d felt in him...
She sighed. There’d been something elemental about it...so unrestrained.
Ava skimmed her fingers down his arm and he grunted, shifting beneath her, his breathing deep and even.
The trouble was she was still so inexperienced at sex. She had nothing to compare this with. Making love with Flynn was magnificent, rapturous and fulfilling. But those couple of times when she’d felt him teeter on the brink of control had been utterly thrilling. She couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t pulled back. If he hadn’t treated her like some porcelain princess who needed gentle handling.
<
br /> Was Flynn afraid she couldn’t cope with the real man? The man behind the charm and sophistication?
If only he knew. That was the man she’d fallen in love with—the one whose laughter was infectious. The one whose passion convinced her she was the one woman in the world for him.
‘I love you,’ she murmured against his chest.
He didn’t answer.
He must be asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘SO SOON?’ AVA tried to keep the discontent from her voice. She wasn’t unreasonable. She knew Flynn had pushed aside a lot of work to be with her in Prague. But still... ‘We only got back last night.’
He shrugged and tucked into the Eggs Benedict the housekeeper had supplied.
That was another thing. Ava had planned to make them both a special breakfast. She’d imagined carrying it into the bedroom and waking Flynn, feeding him fruit and French toast, spending the morning making love.
But she’d been so exhausted she hadn’t even heard Flynn get up. Now he was dressed in a dark suit, suave and dangerously sexy, the epitome of the corporate predator, while she hugged a robe to her breasts and her hair was a morning-after mess.
‘It can’t be helped. I’ve got meetings all day.’
His gaze meshed with hers and Ava felt that familiar melting. She sank into the chair beside him, shifting his newspaper. Even after a night spent more often making love than asleep, he reduced her to mush with a look.
She shoved her hair from her face and smiled. She wasn’t a morning person, and her plans for a sinfully lazy start to the day were wrecked, but she had no cause to complain.
‘You look good enough to eat,’ she murmured, pressing a kiss to Flynn’s lean cheek. ‘You smell good too.’
She reached across to run her fingers through his hair.
‘Watch out!’ Flynn reared back as something clattered on the table.
Ava looked down. She’d knocked over his coffee. A stain spread across the linen cloth.
‘Sorry.’ She dabbed it with a napkin before it dribbled off the table. ‘Did any spill on you?’ She eyed his tailored trousers.
