by Alam, Donna
‘Beckett,’ she answers flatly as if my name is the worst of insults as her head turns my way.
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t that, like, a conflict of interest?’
‘No. It’s strategy.’
‘Excuse me for saying I can’t believe a word you say.’ She sighs heavily, and her breasts rise and fall, evoking a memory from Friday. In my hands, ripe and full, her cleavage heaving with her sighs under my chin.
‘A million pounds,’ I snap, beginning to lose my temper. This whole exercise is beginning to feel like herding cats. And I’m not entirely sure it’s all her fault.
‘A million.’ She turns to face me fully now, one foot hooking behind her calf. A calf that was supple and satin soft to my touch.
‘Just to begin with.’
‘What for?’ she asks, suspicion colouring her tone. Clever girl.
‘I have a business proposition.’
‘Which is what?’ Her tone is . . . uncomplimentary.
‘What? Why? Which? At least that’s some variance over well,’ I drawl, referencing her discomfort at the dinner table Friday evening. ‘Perhaps if you’d close your mouth for a minute and listen, you’d find out.’
‘Well, excuse me for feeling a little pissed for being blindsided. I’m entitled.’
‘Sadly, yes. But I blame that on you being a millennial.’
‘That’s it. I’m out of here.’ She jumps to her feet and begins to gather her bags. Her movements are jerky while her mouth moves with unspoken insults.
‘Do you know Mark Jones and Luke are related?’
‘Don’t know, don’t care.’ She throws the strap of her purse over her shoulder, grasping the handle of the satchel tight.
‘Mark is his stepfather and close to retirement.’
‘So?’ Her arm tautens with the weight of the bag as she slides it from the table.
‘I want this company. The controlling stake.’
‘What has this got to do with me?’
‘Everything and nothing, I suppose. It depends on the choices you make in the next few minutes. Because I want this company, Olivia, and you’re going to help me get it. By marrying me.’
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by her response again, yet I am as she bursts out laughing.
Chapter 10
OLIVIA
‘Are you high?’ He doesn’t answer unless you count the way he glowers at me. ‘I’d need more than a million-pound to persuade me to marry you.’
‘How much?’ he answers baldly.
‘Double your net worth. Hell—triple it!’
His smile bears a hint of cruelty as he relaxes against the sofa, propping his arms along its back. ‘You obviously don’t know what I’m worth. Financially,’ he adds as I open my mouth to deliver my estimation. And it wasn’t numerical.
‘Like you have a high opinion of me. So let’s just call it even.’
‘You mistake me. I wouldn’t be offering to marry you if I didn’t esteem you.’
‘Your flattery is unnecessary.’ Even that delivered in the vein of Mr Darcy, the extra brooding addition.
She is tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt me
. . . so I climbed out of the car and left her with her panties on display.
‘You made it quite clear on Friday evening how little you think of me.’
My skin prickles with awareness as his gaze suddenly slides over me. I’d like to say it’s with a sense of revulsion or disgust from the recognition that he’s blatantly playing with me, but it’s not. Damn his haughty manner and looks, and damn my reaction to them even more.
‘So this is what’s important to you? You’re feeling spurned.’
‘You can’t put a price on people,’ I reply, choosing not to answer his assumption. Choosing not to give him the satisfaction of an answer either.
‘Have you thought or considered any other reasons as to why I left you when I did?’
‘I haven’t wasted my time on that night, or you.’ Even if my currently spotless home disputes those words. He smiles as though silently calling me on my bullshit, and my mouth opens without my permission to make good on my lie. ‘You’re a prick.’ And with that, I turn on my heel and stride for the glass door. Please let me find how to open it.
Immediately, I hear his footsteps behind me, their echo filling my chest with a tightness I don’t recognise. An excitement. A thrill. My own feet move faster across the expansive shiny resin floor, my heart and stomach a mass of jangling sensations as I reach the opaque glass where my approximation of the opening is concealed. But Beckett’s hand reaches the glass before my outstretched one does.
‘Liar,’ he whispers hotly in my ear from behind.
His cologne today is more citrus than spice; a clean, crisp scent that seems to prove my olfactory system is linked to the bunch of nerve ending between my legs. Or maybe it’s his voice, or the pheromones he’s throwing out at such proximity. Whatever it is, it’s inconvenient.
‘Let me out.’
‘I’m not keeping you here.’ There’s a hint of a chuckle in his statement. ‘It’s not my fault you can’t work out how to use a door.’
‘This isn’t a door. It’s more like a portal to hell.’
‘You have a flair for the dramatic, Olivia,’ his low tone rasps. ‘But you weren’t acting on Friday evening. Admit it.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘I thought we were already there.’
His body hovers over mine without touching, but I feel the power restrained in him anyway. My eyes fall to where his hand presses against the glass, his long fingers splayed. A strong wrist under a French cuff with a silver cuff link. I have the mad idea to bite him there over the dusting of sandy hair and tan skin. To press my teeth and leave my mark.
Of course, I don’t. I might get rabies or something.
He dips his head, his lips just a breath from my ear, a bloom of heated anticipation bursting in response at my core. I can’t explain my body’s reaction. My head and my senses at war. I don’t even like him, so how come I’m so turned on?
His breath tantalises my ear, my own clouding, then evaporating against the cool glass as silence trickles between us, building heat and need.
‘You were so wet.’ His whisper is the bedroom kind and without taunt or harsh inflection. And that feeling inside me? It almost bursts. ‘Admit it. You wanted me to fuck you right there on the back seat.’
‘Does that turn you on?’ My answer sounds more strangled than I’d like it to as I turn to face him, head on. ‘Did it get you hot to leave me there? Is that your kink?’
I turn my head and am met by those startling eyes, flecks of amber dancing like fire, or maybe the souls of the damned. But in the face of my taunting questions, Beckett just smirks.
‘That’s really bothering you, isn’t it? Don’t worry, sweetheart. You are irresistible. Well, almost.’
‘And I stand by my previous statement. You’re a prick.’
‘I’m the prick who’d put money on the fact you’re wet now, too.’
‘No, you’re the prick who might have found out on both occasions if you were anyone but you.’
‘Perhaps I decided one night would never be enough.’
‘So you propose?’ I reply with a disbelieving snort.
‘Perhaps I couldn’t trust myself with you.’ His hand lifts from the glass, the back of his knuckle ghosting my brow, my cheek, my jaw. And like a fool, I allow him.
‘Haven’t we already established that flattery will get you absolutely nowhere with me?’
‘Come now, I don’t think that’s true. You were certainly open to a little adoration Friday night.’
‘Exactly. I might’ve put out. So why push me away only to then ask me to marry you?’
‘The two things are separate. Our marriage would be a business proposition with all details laid out in a contract.’
‘You have problems.’ Instead of pushing him away, my insults seem to be having t
he opposite effect and have brought him closer. And why am I allowing him to take my laptop bag out of my hand?
‘There are many forms of gratification, Olivia.’
‘Meaning you get your kicks out of tormenting women?’ I ask saccharine sweet.
‘Don’t do that,’ he says, his fierce brows now pinched. ‘Don’t pretend to be something you’re not.’ His words sting like a reprimand, but I don’t have the chance to retort as his index finger tips my chin, his eyes searching every inch of my face. ‘What happened that night has nothing to do with my offer. But make no mistake, I did want to fuck you. I do.’
The fire inside me changes in that instant. I can’t make sense of it, but I’m no less angry. And then in the most bizarre of moments, he dips his head and slides his lips against mine. And even more bizarre than that, I let him.
I have officially lost my mind, and if it hadn’t left my skull already, I think the heat in his kiss would’ve melted it down anyway. His lips are soft yet masterful. No tentative swipes or delicate presses here. I shiver as his finger loops under the strap of my purse and slips it from my shoulder like underwear sliding off my hips. Lord knows as it hits the floor, I wish it was.
‘I still hate you,’ I whisper into his kiss.
His chuckle is low and rough as he rasps, ‘I’m counting on it.’ His kiss becomes deeper, wetter, as one of his hands curls around my hip.
‘Don’t you dare stop,’ I find myself whispering as I coil my fingers into his lapels as though to prevent just that. He makes a sound of masculine contentment, his hand sliding down to the curve of my ass.
‘Delicious.’ The rasp is more growl than word, but I don’t know which of us made it. Not that it matters as I push my hands over the broad contours of his chest, around to his back, mirroring his position but using both hands instead. Greedy and grasping, I knead the taut flesh as he presses his hard length into me. Desire burns in my veins, along with a strange kind of one-upmanship and a need to be naked under him. So confusing. God, I want to win. And it could be that exact thing that prompts me to suck his bottom lip into my mouth, releasing it before sinking my teeth into the plump flesh.
A low rumble rises from the depths of his chest, his body vibrating with restraint as he tightens his one-handed grip on my ass and presses his free hand to the glass. One minute, we’re lost in the moment, and the next, we’re almost stumbling into the hallway, Beckett oh, so chivalrously anchoring both hands to my ass now. But at least I stay upright. The door raps against his knuckles as his amber gaze stares down at me, sort of dazed.
‘If that’s how you kiss when you hate me, I can’t wait to see what being married to me will do to you.’ His words are rough, and a pulse hammers in his neck. I find both gratifying.
‘Don’t make me feel bad for kissing a crazy man.’ I pat his chest as though in consolation.
‘Don’t mistake lunacy for ruthlessness.’
‘Honey, I loathe you. It won’t get any better than this. Do you need to call a doctor? I really do think you should up those . . .’
His smile stops me in my tracks. That isn’t a smile of wickedness, or maybe it is. Yep, that’s it. The man has levelled up.
He steps back, raising his chin imperiously, straightening to his six-feet-whatever frame. If this were a horror movie, this would be the point Bela Lugosi would swirl his cape, and the musical score would swell to a dramatic crescendo. Maybe he’d do me a solid and turn into a bat before disappearing into the night.
A girl can wish.
But no, Beckett wouldn’t fly away. Not with those levels of satisfaction settling around him. And not as a gnawing sense of awareness creeps from the base of my spine.
‘What did you do . . .?’
If he answers, I don’t hear it. Not as I turn my head over my shoulder to see the whole wall has returned to transparency and isn’t offering a lot in the way of discretion. I can see clear out into the rest of the suite of offices, which also means they can see in. And while people seem to be carrying on with their daily tasks, I know just moments ago, they were frozen like figures in Pompeii with their eyes fixed on us. Hands mauling ass, lips fused. How do I know? Because one person is still looking.
Luke. He stands frozen as a sea of activity swirls around him.
‘You set me up,’ I growl.
‘That all depends on what you’re referring to.’
‘All of this! From Friday—from the beginning—right until now.’ I just wish I knew what this was all about. I stand unmoving because I don’t want to give in to the urge to punch him. And I so desperately want to, evidenced by my clenched fists at my side. But I’ve already drawn enough attention to myself for one day.
‘Did I plan to be in the exact place Friday for you to fall over my shoe? Or perhaps you think I’m somehow responsible for the pregnancy of the hapless Luke’s girlfriend? Let me assure you, if I had gotten the girl pregnant, she wouldn’t be trying to pin it on him.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘He may be the boss’s stepson, but scheming middle-class girls don’t settle for upper middle-class boys when there’s wealthier prey within reach.’
‘Not everyone is interested in money.’
‘No? Oh. My mistake. So that’s not what you’re here in my office for?’
‘I came because I was looking for investors.’
‘To kiss?’
‘I take no responsibility for that.’
‘Olivia,’ he chastises, ‘we must all play our parts. And your part is to be in my office today because I required you to be here. And because you need something that I have. You need to get your hands on some of the filthy stuff.’
I open a mouth filled with a million denials until I decide he’s not speaking about what just happened. But I’m done for the day.
‘There are other ways to get money,’ I murmur, bending to gather my things once again, causing him to step back.
Because no man wants to be headbutted in the nuts.
‘Everyone has their price.’
‘There isn’t enough money in the world to persuade me to marry you.’
Chapter 11
BECKETT
I lift the corner of my phone from the table to check for messages again before casting my gaze on the cool interior of the restaurant, content we aren’t sitting out on the roof terrace this evening. Clouds hang low over the city, dank and humid, and London’s inhabitants are desperate for the reprieve a little thunder will bring.
She’ll come around.
She hasn’t any real choice in the matter.
I just wish she’d bloody well hurry up.
Money and business aside, she’s interested. The night in the car we might’ve already fucked if not for my need of her. The attraction was mutual, even if she’s crying wolf right now.
Too much is at stake for me. But she’s interested, definitely interested. Maybe not in marrying me, but she will be. It’s just a matter of time. And time is something she doesn’t have the benefit of, according to my enquiries.
‘Your conversation today is riveting, Alexander.’ I look up from the remains of my dinner that has yet to be cleared from the table. ‘I thought that would get your attention,’ Harrison, my supposed friend, adds quite happily. ‘Aren’t you going to give me the patented Beckett steely gaze and tell me first naming you is naughty? Verboten? Worthy of a kicking?’ As well as a Tom Ford suit, the fucker is wearing a shit eating grin. ‘What are you going to do about it, hey?’
‘Turn the other cheek?’ I suggest, uninterested in the conversation because my mind remained on a certain woman who I’m disinclined to talk about to him. To mention her would be a mistake. If I’ve learned one thing since entering this strange sort of friendship circle, it’s to never discuss the woman you’ve an interest in fucking. I may as well just hand them the chain to yank. Strangely, it’s okay to discuss the women you’ve already fucked, but I think that’s because no one enjoys the thought of double dipping.
Well, I certainly don’t.
It goes without saying that it would be foolish of me to speak with him about the woman I’m going to marry, for convenience or otherwise.
‘Last time I called you Alexander, you didn’t turn the other cheek.’ Griffin arrives at the table, sliding into the seat opposite. ‘You nearly fucking burst it, as I recall.’ As though to support his words, he prods the area in question, his tone aggrieved.
‘It was your nose.’
‘It was my fucking cheek. I should know. And it led to a trip to the emergency room.’ In my defence, it was an accident. I caught him with my elbow, though I did feel like punching him at the time.
Harrison drains his drink, his shoulders moving with a deep chuckle. ‘Where you nobbled one of the nurses in a side room.’
‘A junior doctor, actually. She was from Prague.’
‘So he did you a favour, really. Besides, you tried to cuddle him. You know he doesn’t like that demonstrative shit.’
‘So he nearly broke my fucking cheekbone because I wanted to show him a bit of drunken love?’
‘You’re late.’ I slide him a disapproving glare, though, as usual, it’s wasted on him.
‘Yeah, I got chatting to a couple of girls outside.’ A collective groan goes up at the table. ‘What?’ he exclaims, struggling to hold back his grin. ‘What’s the problem with that?’
‘Come on, spit it out. There’s always a story with you.’ Nothing is ever simple with him.
‘I can’t help I have an interesting sex life.’
‘Like the dominatrix you met on the Waterloo line?’
‘What about her?’ He grins rather idiotically, sliding a cold chip from my abandoned plate.
‘We know you made an appointment,’ Harry replies disparagingly. ‘No woman is going to admit to beating businessmen for money on public transport, for fuck’s sake.’
