My title…now.
“Of course.” Mr. Rajah nods with a polite deference that I find irritating. “Would you like to come with me? We’re having lunch in the partners’ dining room, and I must say we have one of the finest cellars in London.”
* * *
Mesmerized, I stare at the dancing flames of the fire at my club in Mayfair.
Earl of Trevethick.
That’s me. Now.
It’s inconceivable. It’s devastating.
How I envied my brother’s title and his position in the family when I was younger. Kit had been the favored child since birth, especially with my mother, but then he was the heir, not the spare. Known as Viscount Porthtowan since he was born, Kit had become the twelfth Earl of Trevethick at the age of twenty upon our father’s sudden death. At twenty-eight I’m lucky number thirteen. And though I’ve coveted the title and all that goes with it, now that it’s mine, I feel like I’m intruding on my brother’s domain.
You fucked his countess last night. That’s more than intruding.
I take a slug of the Glenrothes I’m drinking and raise my glass. “A toast to the Ghost,” I whisper, and smile at the irony. The Glenrothes was my father’s whisky of choice, and my brother’s—and from today this 1992 vintage will be mine.
I can’t pinpoint the moment I made peace with Kit’s inheritance and with Kit himself, but it happened sometime in my late teens. He had the title, he’d won the girl, and I had to accept that. But now everything is mine. Everything.
Even your wife. Well, for last night at least.
But the irony is that Kit has made no provision for Caroline in his will.
Nothing.
This is what she feared.
How could he have been so remiss? He’d drawn a new will four months ago but he hadn’t made provisions for her. They’d only been married for two years….
What was he thinking?
Of course, she may challenge it. And who would blame her?
I rub my face.
What am I going to do?
My phone buzzes.
WHERE ARE YOU?
It’s a text from Caroline.
I switch off my phone and order another drink. I don’t want to see her tonight. I want to lose myself in someone else. Someone new. Someone with no strings attached, and I think I’ll score some blow, too. I pull out my phone and open Tinder.
* * *
“Maxim, this is a stunning flat.” She gazes out over the murky water of the Thames that glimmers with light from the Peace Pagoda. I take her jacket and drape it over the back of the sofa.
“Drink or something stronger?” I offer. We are not going to be in the drawing room for long. On cue she flicks her shining black hair over her shoulder. Her hazel eyes, framed with kohl, are intent on me.
Licking painted lips, she arches a brow and asks, “Something stronger?” Her tone is seductive. “What are you drinking?”
Ah…she’s not taking the hint, so no coke, then, but she’s way ahead of me. I step closer so that she has to angle her head to look up at me. I’m careful not to touch her.
“I’m not thirsty, Heather.” I pitch my voice low, pleased that I’ve remembered her name. She swallows, and her lips part.
“Me neither,” she whispers, and her provocative smile reaches her eyes.
“What do you want?” I watch as her gaze moves to my mouth. It’s an invitation. I pause for a moment, just to make sure I’m reading her correctly, then lean down and kiss her. It’s the briefest touch: lips on lips, then nothing.
“I think you know what I want.” She reaches up to run her fingers through my hair and pull me back to her warm and willing mouth. She tastes of brandy with a faint hint of cigarettes. The taste is distracting. I don’t remember seeing her smoke at the club. I pull her hard against me, one hand at her waist while the other travels down over her lush curves. She has a small waist and large, firm breasts, which she presses enticingly against me. I wonder if they’ll taste as good as they feel. My hand skims down to her backside as I deepen the kiss, exploring her eager mouth.
“What do you want?” I whisper against her lips.
“You.” Her voice is breathy and urgent. She’s turned on. Big time. She begins to unbutton my shirt. I hold still as she eases it off my shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.
Do I take her here or in my bed? Comfort wins and I grab her hand. “Come with me.” I tug her gently, and she follows me out of the drawing room and down the hall, into the bedroom.
The room is tidy, as I knew it would be.
God bless Krystyna.
I switch the bedside lights on from the wall and walk her to the bed. “Turn around.”
Heather does as she’s told but sways a little in her high heels. “Steady.” I clasp her shoulders and pull her tight against me, then turn her head toward me so I can see her eyes. They’re intent on my lips, but she looks up at me. Eyes bright. Clear. Focused. Sober enough. I nuzzle her neck, tasting her soft, fragrant skin with my tongue. “I think it’s time to lie down.” I unzip her short red dress and peel it over her shoulders, pausing as I expose the tops of her breasts concealed by a red bra. I skim my thumbs across the surface of the lacy fabric. She groans and arches her back, pushing her breasts into my hands.
Oh, yes.
My thumbs dip beneath the delicate material and circle her hardening nipples as she gropes behind her for the button on my jeans. “We have all night,” I murmur, and release her before stepping back so that her dress slides down her body and pools at her feet.
A red thong reveals her shapely behind.
“Turn around. I want to see you.”
Heather tosses her hair over her shoulder as she turns and gives me a searing look from beneath her lashes. She has the most magnificent breasts.
I smile. She smiles.
This is going to be fun.
Reaching forward, she grabs the waistband of my jeans and tugs sharply so her glorious tits are once more pressed against my chest. “Kiss me,” she growls, her voice low and demanding. She runs her tongue over her top teeth, and my body responds, my groin tightening.
“Only too happy to oblige, madam.”
I clasp her head, my fingers in her silky hair, and kiss her more roughly this time. She responds, her hands grabbing fistfuls of my hair as our tongues lock. She stops and looks up at me with a salacious glint in her eyes, as if finally seeing me and liking what she sees. Then her lips are once more feverish against mine.
Man, she really wants this.
Nimble fingers find the top button of my jeans, and she pulls. Laughing, I grab her hands and push her gently so we both fall onto the bed.
* * *
Heather. Her name is Heather, and she’s fast asleep beside me. I glance at my bedside clock; it’s 5:15 A.M. She’s a good fuck, no doubt about it. But now I want her gone. How long will I have to lie here listening to the soft sound of her breathing? Perhaps I should have gone to her flat instead, so then I could leave. But my place was nearer—and we were both impatient. As I stare at the ceiling, I mentally run through our evening, trying to remember what, if any, details I’ve learned about her. She works in television—or “telly,” as she calls it—and she has to be at work in the morning, which means she has to leave soon, surely? She lives in Putney. She’s hot. And willing. Yes, very willing. She likes to be on her front during intercourse, she’s quiet when she comes, and she has a talented mouth that knows exactly how to revive a spent man. My cock stirs at the memory, and I contemplate waking her up for more. Her dark hair is fanned out on the pillow, and her expression is serene in sleep. I ignore the pang of envy that her serenity inspires and wonder if I got to know her better, would I find the same peace?
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I want her gone.
You have intimacy issues. Caroline’s nagging voice
reverberates through my mind.
Caroline. Shit.
Three whining texts and several missed calls from Caroline have pissed me off. My jeans lie on the floor in a crumpled heap. From the back pocket, I retrieve my phone. Checking on the sleeping form beside me—no, she hasn’t stirred—I read my messages from Caroline.
WHERE RU?
CALL ME!
*POUTING*