by Alam, Donna
A man so cold my ass was almost frostbitten from just sitting next to him.
I don’t know what happened, and I just don’t know what to think. But think I do. I can’t help it—isn’t that what we women do?—but I may have taken it a little overboard. You know, thinking for almost the whole eight-hour journey. But what the heck. Two hours into the flight, my questions have turned to anger, and by the time we’ve been airborne for four hours, I’m ready to cut a bitch. A bitch named Beckett, more specifically, who appears to have thrown himself into work for the whole flight. What kind of a person doesn’t take a few minutes to eat or relax? He’s paid for the luxury of having a space and a bed comfortable enough to sleep for a few hours, but he doesn’t even do that. He waves off the offer of champagne as we board, then the afternoon tea; tiny sandwiches and cakes served with a choice of infusions; Assam for me, along with an accompanying Kir Royal. He even refuses dinner. What’s the point of paying for first class if you’re only going to stare at your laptop?
‘What is it you want?’ Over the divider between his pod and mine, Beckett glances my way, his brows pulled down.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Are you talking to me, or are you swallowing my fist?
‘Spit it out, whatever it is. I’ve got work to do.’
‘You have nothing I want,’ I reply icily.
‘You and I both know that’s not true.’ There’s so much suggestion in his tone and his smile is so wickedly suggestive, it’s obvious we’re not talking about money here.
I shouldn’t want to touch him. I shouldn’t be tempted by his very presence, yet unfortunately, I am. I exhale a breath, pushing away the temptation to slap him. And then kiss him. And then sit on his face. I must be an idiot. Or a glutton for punishment, at least. But I’ve never been one who responded well to being told no to anything.
‘You keep deluding yourself.’ I turn my back on him. Because unlike him, I haven’t imposed a moratorium on flying fun. My pod has been made into a bed already and covered with snowy white sheets. Well, they were snowy white. Now they’re a little less so. Maybe I should’ve taken the time to wear the cashmere jammies. No matter, I’m sure my sheets would still be scattered with stains and crumbs.
On second thought, I decide I do have something to say to him, but as I turn to deliver a verbal dressing down, I realise he’s pulled up the screen between us, essentially cutting me off.
That rat bastard. The absolute—
‘More champagne, Ms Welland?’ I look up into the owner of the deep voice.
‘Oh. Yes. Why not.’ I grasp my glass from the mini table and hold it out as I look up into the sultry dark-haired and sexily Spanish-accented member of the flight crew. ‘Thank you, Roberto.’ According to his name badge. Roberto with the lashes like an emu and a smile like sunshine. A smile I find myself returning.
I’m not smiling as the screen between us comes down again.
‘I’m not sure even Roberto can satisfy your needs.’
‘What would you know about my needs?’ I answer coolly.
‘A little more than I knew about them last week. Do try not to flirt with every handsome face that passes your way. You’ll recall you’re Mrs Beckett now.’
And how could I forget?
Well, I imagine I won’t be able to. Ever, I suspect. Even after these six months are up. At least until the six months is up, and maybe not even then. Needless to say, we barely speak for the rest of the journey.
My needs.
I tried not to guess the meaning behind his words, but it was hard not to. Did he mean financial needs—the money I’d needed for E-Volve to succeed? Or was he referring to the purely physical? What happens between us when we touch? And if it was that, then I’m also learning about my needs along with him because my body has never responded to anyone like it does to his touch. And that knowledge doesn’t warm me one little bit. Not as we arrive at his Georgian period mansion house where he leaves me in the entry hall.
Yep, as our cases are carried in by the driver, Beckett turns to face me as he pauses at the still open door.
‘I have some business to attend to.’
‘What? But it’s gone midnight?’ I want to bite back the words the minute they’re in the air. Better that I look like I don’t care. But I do care because he’s leaving me here. In his house. Without even showing me where stuff is. Where am I supposed to sleep? If he thinks I’m sleeping in his bed, he is wrong on so many levels.
‘Not everywhere in the world is currently heading for bed.’ He sounds tired. It would be so much easier to argue with him if he didn’t. Actually, it would be easier if he wasn’t already closing the door behind him. ‘Make yourself at home.’
I’m left looking at the oak door as it closes.
I’m not sure how long I stand just staring. But how do you make yourself at home when you’re clearly not. Go exploring, I suppose. Or if you don’t have the heart to explore, at least find where the kettle and teabags are.
My shoes squeak against the marble floor as I make my way deeper into the house. A grand staircase leads to the upper floors, the ceiling above a vaulted cupola and a delicately gilded ceiling rose. There’s a tiny no thanks or, as others call it, a small elevator set in an alcove next to the stairs. Italian marble leads to oak floors and large windows, the doors to each room twice the width of those in my tiny apartment.
A drawing room to the left, a parlour to the right, a library opening to a large office with a Bauhaus desk in oak. A billiards room with table covered in sandy baize, not green, and a bar in the corner with matching high stools covered in an Oriental embroidered silk. Each room has original features; fireplaces and plasterwork, pale painted linenfold panelling. Tasteful artwork hangs on walls, stylish furniture and oriental rugs tie together the chic colour schemes. There isn’t a thing out of place. Not a magazine or a stray mug. No shoes discarded or clothes draped over chairs. It’s hard to believe anyone lives here at all. The place is like a showroom and far too big for one man, though he probably has staff somewhere. And despite the obvious history of the place, each room smells new. It’s hard to describe. Maybe the smell of new furnishings?
I eventually find the kitchen which is dark, sleek, and vaguely masculine, though I give up on the kettle after five minutes of opening each and every handle-less cupboard. Three silver pendant lights hang over a central island, floor-to-ceiling cupboards cover two of the walls. The other two walls are made entirely of glass, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. There is nothing sitting on any of the countertops; not a toaster or an appliance or even a fruit bowl. The only things discernible as kitchen-ish are the sink, the double oven, and a stove top with a teppanyaki style grill, none of which look like they’ve ever been used. It’s such a shame; this is a kitchen for entertaining. I find the fridge eventually, for what it’s worth, a large industrial-sized thing camouflaged by cabinetry. Sadly, it only contains a couple of wrinkled lemons and some fancy-looking cheese wearing a furry coat.
Does the devil’s offspring not eat?
I’m going to have to bring my kettle. My toaster. And I foresee a visit to the grocery store in my not too distant future.
Flipping off the lights, I make my way back along the hallway. Ignoring the tiny elevator, I begin dragging my suitcase up the staircase, each bump echoing through the cavernous space. There are five bedrooms, each with their own bathroom, a massive media room with a TV the people three boroughs away could probably watch through the windows, and a tiny half kitchen void of snacks. What hell is this? No popcorn or soda pop to keep a girl company while watching trashy TV?
It feels weirder to open the doors to the rooms upstairs. Like I’m intruding. But I suppose he did tell me to make myself at home. Though I think it might take me at least five and a half of our married months to get used to the layout of the place.
Two bedrooms decorated in blues, and two in green. I don’t pay much attention to anything in the next one, but it’s easy to tell it belongs to Be
ckett because it’s the only one that doesn’t smell like the rest of the house. New and unused. Instead, it smells like him. Of his cologne. Of . . . I don’t know. Beckett pheromones?
I stand at the doorway, but don’t go in. Then decide I’m being a wuss.
His bedroom appears to have been originally three rooms; there’s a central area housing a huge bed in pale linens. To the right, there’s a living area with a sofa and a TV, at the other end, a dressing room that Mariah Carey would envy, and a huge master bath beyond; black marble with white veins, a basin more like a trough, a bath you would almost swim in, and a shower you could definitely party in.
You get the picture. Everything is on a grand and expensive scale. And makes me think of two things.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was compensating for something, given the size of the master suite.
A million is pocket change to him.
I wheel my suitcase into a bedroom at the other end of the floor. One of the blue ones, just as lovely as the others but a little less grand with low ceilings, understated touches, a chair and a small writing desk, plus a bathroom off to the side.
I unpack my case, piling my laundry onto the chair before pulling out my wash bag and helping myself to a hot shower. I climb into fresh pyjamas and slide myself into bed. Then get out again, unplugging my phone from the socket before searching for a suitable podcast.
Ten minutes later, I’m out of bed and wandering around the place.
I didn’t lock the front door. Was I supposed to?
I don’t want to be murdered in my bed.
I go down and check. It’s an electronic lock. Automatic. My worries are unnecessary here.
I’d kill for a cup of tea but settle for a glass of water, which I bring with me on my second inspection round. This one is a little more thorough.
Hey, I’m just making myself at home!
The bar is filled with high-end liquor, and spiral stairs next to the elevator lead down to a basement. I’m not investigating down there. Nope, not in the dark and after midnight. The library is filled with all kinds of books from ancient-looking, leather-bound tomes to a battered Jilly Cooper romp. I tilt my head to read the spines until I get a crick in my neck.
There’s a TV in the lounge concealed behind a cabinet, expensive looking artworks but no family photographs on display. I slam a few billiard balls around the table with my hand, spilling a little water on the baize—oops!
I eventually make my way upstairs to do the very thing I’ve been avoiding.
Snooping. I’m dying to snoop in Beckett’s bedroom.
I flip on the light and step into the huge room, running my hand along his bed as I travel, the linens super soft under my fingertips. I poke around the two nightstands; he sleeps on the left, evidenced by the reading material stacked on one end. No Jilly Cooper, sadly. Boring business books and one on Turkey. The country, not the feathery thing. The contents of the drawers are likewise. Boring, though I steel myself for the box of condoms I’m sure I’ll find but don’t.
Why does that feel sort of gratifying?
I flip on the wall-mounted TV, wondering what it is he watches. Ugh, the news. How uninteresting. Then I pull throw pillows from the sofa to see what treasures this might yield. Nada. Nothing. Not even a penny.
Then I make my way through to his dressing room, where his suits appear to be colour coded. And the pockets empty. A couple of Tom Ford, more that are bespoke, a Gucci in grey, a Paul Smith number in blue. Handmade shirts and leather oxfords and brogues, Armani trainers and Gucci loafers. Balenciaga jeans, and all manner of designer T-shirts. This room is like the menswear department of Selfridges.
Leaving everything as it should be, I make my way into the bathroom, and pull off the lids and sniff at least six of his bottles of cologne. Stopping at the one that smells most like him, I squirt a little on my wrist, then I stick a finger in his moisturiser—okay, aftershave balm—and slather it on the back of my hand. I open the cupboards and poke around the contents. Towels, all exceedingly fluffy and white and in all sizes. Unopened bottles of products stocked behind the opened bottles.
I flip off the light and stalk back into the bedroom, annoyed. Why has my snooping yielding no information? If someone were to dig around my home, I’m sure they’d learn so much about me. My kitchen might not be full of food, but it is full of cookbooks, and there’s always a bar of chocolate stashed somewhere, and a half full bottle of wine in the fridge. I read the type of books where the heroine always gets her man, or the detective collars his serial killer, because I like my endings to be happy, and my bathroom would reveal the kind of analgesic I take for period pain.
And my bedside cabinet? I dread to think. Pink dicks and purple pricks. Plastic ones, obviously. Not that I’m obsessed or anything, but a girl has to have options, especially when she’s been single for a while.
Fists on my hips, I turn and survey the room. Other than the clothes hanging in his vast and tidy closets, it could well have been a hotel room. There’s nothing personal about the house at all. It’s beautiful, for sure. And worth millions, and I dare say the same for its contents. Turn of the century antiques and contemporary artworks. But who is the man behind the tastes? Who is Alexander Beckett?
Just the man I’m tied to for the next six months. Minus two days. God, has it only been two days? The Botox I’ll need by the time this experience is over. I’ll age a dozen years at least.
I move back to the bed and lean my hands down on it. It’s a big bed. For a big man. Because the Alexander Beckett I know, I understand only physically. I know it takes two of my hands to span one of his biceps and how the ladder of his abdominals react to even the slightest caress. I’ve become familiar with at least a dozen variations of his smile, from the Arctic twist of his lips when his patience is wearing thin, to the sardonic smirk he wears when he imagines he’s winning. I know the way his gaze darkens when he’s turned on, and I’m familiar with the low growl he makes as he comes.
I dip my head to the mattress, ignoring the heavy pull between my legs.
‘Oh, God, I’m so screwed,’ I whisper. The things I know about him are the things I want to study more. I inhale deeply. The linens have been recently washed, the evidence in the flowery fresh scent. If you’re going to stalk, you may as well cover all the bases.
For a split second, I consider what it would be like to be married to Beckett properly. To sleep with him in this bed. I mean, I’d probably commit mariticide, but I expect I’d be acquitted. You know, on the grounds of extreme provocation or something. The jury would understand, I’m sure. But what would it be like to crawl into bed with him each night? His long arms slung around my waist. My head nestled in the dip between his chest and bicep. But then, maybe the bed is a ruse. Maybe he doesn’t sleep but hangs upside down like a bat in his basement or maybe he has a silk-lined coffin down in his creepy basement. It’s hard to tell how he sleeps—if he sleeps. I’ve twice ended up in bed with him yet woke alone.
I lift my arms and stretch as I wonder what time it is. Then, like a child, I give in to the sudden impulse to lean back and flop into the middle of the bed. I giggle as my body bounces, the mattress yielding under me, then wriggle into the middle, my head suddenly buried under an avalanche of pillows. For a moment, I feel like I’m being suffocated and, in my panic, begin flipping the things from my face and the bed.
What the hell am I doing here? Not here, in this house, which is crazy enough, but here on his bed? Sniffing his sheets and rattling his drawers for evidence of who he is? This isn’t like any kind of jet lag I’ve ever experienced.
‘I am seriously losing it,’ I whisper at the ceiling as I close my eyes and rest my forearm over my face, the scent of Beckett’s cologne on my wrist awakening a sensory memory. Beckett’s whispers hot in my ear, his body over mine and blocking out the light.
‘I shouldn’t want him.’ But it doesn’t alter the fact I do, and it doesn’t alter the fact that just the scent
of him triggers a wave of need so great I’m sliding my hand over the satiny front of my pyjamas.
The honeymoon is over. His words echo in my ear, and I find myself answering. ‘Maybe for you.’
Cupping myself, I squeeze my thighs together, my sigh a stuttering thing as I press down with my palm. I know I shouldn’t, but the badness calls to me.
His bed. My orgasm.
‘Yes.’ My whisper echoes in the air as I loosen my thighs and slip my hand under the elastic of my pyjamas, coating my clit in my own arousal as I recall the feel of his fingers trailing from my ankles to my thighs. His breath against my shoulder as he’d taken my hips in his hands, the stubble on his jaw abrading my skin.
I’ve never felt so possessed, so thoroughly owned as I do when I’m with him. But from now, it looks as if I’ll be relying on memories as I begin to circle and pet, my fingers picking up their well-practised rhythm.
Spread your legs.
I dig my heels into the bed and arch my hips, the recollection of his words an echo in my ear.
You’re so sexy.
I can’t wait to fuck you.
My thighs tremble as the images begin to flash in my head. His hands on me. The taste of my arousal from his tongue. The way his brows draw tight, his gaze one of pure focus and intensity. I screw my eyes tight, my insides beginning to pulse as I imagine his cock slamming into me and—
Something, and awareness, cause my eyes to blink open, my hand retracting from my pyjama pants like I’d, well, like I’d been caught touching myself.
Because I have.
Because Beckett stands at the doorway, his expression inscrutable.
With a groan that’s probably closer to a whimper, I roll onto my side away from the sight of him.
Chapter 31
BECKETT
‘Don’t stop.’ The words come without thought but, fuck me, I mean them. I drop my T-shirt to the floor, and in a half dozen steps, the bed is dipping under my weight. Whatever I did to deserve a welcome like this, I’m not certain. In fact, after today, I probably deserve never to touch her again.
