eyebrows flick up. ‘Good choice.’
‘Whoa... A polite compliment?’
He shakes his head, a ghost of remorse flitting over his face. ‘Yes. I was...abrupt earlier. I just don’t like surprises, and I wasn’t expecting you.’
It’s not quite an apology, but I’m still thrown. I focus on the fact the scrummy man cluttering my brother’s doorstep has insisted on dressing me up. Why have I allowed such pretentious nonsense? Because I like a challenge? Because I’ve got something to prove? Some urge to fit into his world, however briefly?
‘One would have been sufficient—did you have to send over the entire evening-gown department?’ I’m extra-snippy, realising I’ve done exactly what I said I wouldn’t—conform.
Kit shrugs. ‘My business, my rules. A uniform, remember.’
I sigh, now regretting the make-up. The uniform crap was difficult to argue, but the face...that was all me.
My belly tightens. Why am I trying to impress this man? Aside from his effortless sex appeal, I usually consider myself immune to everything he represents. But that’s clearly the answer—I’m not immune to the sexual allure. That dispensed with, I’m guessing the Kit effect would be rendered inert.
He pulls one hand from his trouser pocket, reaching up to grip my elbow. I barely have time to ensure the front door closes behind me before he guides me to the sleek black car idling at the kerb. But those few seconds provide enough time for the heat of his palm to register, to prick at my skin and leave the ghost of a handprint, not quite an itch, not quite a thrill.
I pull my arm from his grip. I can walk unaided. Just about. And now he’s touched me, I’m back to square one on the resisting-him scale.
He opens the car door and silently urges me inside, the doorstep smile and its breath-stealing effect now a distant blip. Although I need the timely reminder, neither is relevant.
This is work. Boring work. Absolutely no excitement on offer whatsoever. Definitely no sexual undercurrents.
My temples pounding, already I’m regretting my impulse to accompany him tonight. Already dreading mixing with a packed theatre full of play-loving strangers dressed to the nines. An outsider, out of my comfort zone—why do I always have to push, to prove myself? Why couldn’t I have just told Kit where to stick his job, his money and his heated looks and helped Will and Josh shop for baby clothes?
I could have been watching a movie with them right now, having cracked open my favourite Terry’s Chocolate Orange—a giant one I bought, duty-free. But that reckless streak in me has me spending the evening with Grumpy, while he arse-kisses his wealthy clients.
I take a rational breath, hoping to solve at least one of my problems with a little self-talk. Just because my biological mother lives somewhere in London, doesn’t mean I’m likely to run into her in Kit’s private theatre box... Not that I’d know her if I literally fell from these outrageous shoes into her lap. And who cares about belonging, fitting in? I have a fantastic, supportive adoptive family and an amazing, globetrotting job.
Pep talk over, I slide the dress flat under my backside in case he wants to return it, uncreased, or pass it on to the next mannequin he tries to intimidate into behaving exactly the way he wants, while Kit rounds the back of the car and slides in beside me. And then we’re off.
It’s a new experience for me, being chauffeur-driven, but I keep my face neutral, serene, silently enjoying the fizz bubbling up in my chest. I feign uninterest by glancing out of the tinted windows.
‘Where are we going? I don’t do the Bard.’ I turn my undivided attention back to Kit. ‘It’s a personal rule of mine.’ I offer a tight smile as my fingers tap wildly against the tiny clutch bag included with the shoes, as if they too need an outlet for being expensively trussed up like a turkey for his pleasure.
Control freak.
‘The West End—the Shaftesbury.’ His lips twitch. Actually twitch. ‘The Bard?’ He stares, his eyes flicking over my features as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
‘Yes. Watching Shakespeare is three hours of our lives we can never get back.’ I look away, but not before I see him shake his head in...disbelief? Amusement?
Kit slides his arm along the back of the leather seat and angles his body to face me, amused eyes narrowed. My skin tightens in the foreign get-up. I may as well be swimming around under a lens for his invasive inspection—a fish out of water.
He rubs at his bottom lip. ‘Not a fan of the theatre?’
I shrug.
‘What do you like?’ His eyes scan my face.
I stare back and his navy eyes burn into mine, latching on to my erogenous zones like heat-seeking missiles and setting off a series of miniature explosions.
‘I prefer to be active.’ The need to prove myself throbs harder every time he looks down his slightly crooked nose at me and every time I remember I’m in a strange city, closer than I’ve ever been to the woman who birthed me. But I hold his stare, the rebelliousness helping to counteract the attraction.
‘That’s why I love my job. What makes me good at it.’ I wouldn’t be sitting here in his luxury-on-wheels car otherwise. The two older Faulkner brothers I met this morning have a clear vision for their empire and exacting standards for their staff. I shouldn’t care, but I want Kit to know that I’m more than the dressed-up doll he’s made me with the uniform.
Not that the ridiculous dress he sent over, which barely conceals my braless chest, qualifies. And screw him and his rules. He’s rude, obnoxious and acts entitled. ‘If you’d just sign off on my ideas for the film you need never see me again. I’ll be done filming in a matter of weeks, a fortnight if the British weather plays nice.’
He offers no comeback. The car jolts to the right to avoid some cyclist with a death wish and Kit’s thigh glides along mine. It lasts less than a second, but the brief contact is incendiary to my hormones, repeatedly firing my pleasure centres.
Clearly being in London and meeting someone who so effectively both winds me up and turns me on is too much for my hormones. I should shag him and get the highly inconvenient urges over with and show him, whether professionally or up close and personally, I’m up to any challenge. Perhaps with the exception of the heels already pinching my toes.
‘What do you love about your job?’
Him ignoring my out clause throws me, and I answer honestly. ‘Normally I relish the creative aspect of my work, helping clients tell the story they want the world to see, but I suspect this job will present extra...challenges.’ Kit-shaped challenges...
A small shake of his head—confident, assured, perceptive. ‘Someone with your industry experience, your awards, will have no problem with a short promotional video.’
So, he looked me up. Is he as thrown by meeting me as I am by him, despite myself? Heat pools low in my belly, its sweetness cut by the acidic taste on my tongue.
‘Usually my clients are as agreeable as your brothers. Tell me, why are you so rude? Is it just foreigners, or do you try to control everyone?’
For several protracted seconds, I assume he’s going to ignore my questions. We face off. His stare sparks flickers of flame. It’s not a look of dislike, and it curls my toes in his poncey, overpriced shoes.
‘Would it help if I apologise?’
I shrug through my surprise. ‘It might.’ I smooth my features into a mask of indifference. ‘But in some regards, it’s too late. You’ve already raised the stakes, thrown down an irresistible gauntlet.’ I lean in, holding his eye contact, breathing through the burn in my corneas at his proximity and the warm, masculine scent of him, which bathes me like a cloud. ‘Adrenaline is addictive.’
The car slows in evening traffic