Off Limits Page 8

  ‘Ma’am?’ Hughes straightens from where he’s been leaning beside the limo.

  ‘Do you just lounge about out here all day, waiting for me to walk past?’ I ask teasingly. I know how busy he is.

  ‘Better than watching paint dry. You can actually walk in those things?’

  He nods down at my Louboutins with a smile on his lips. They’re two-inch spike heels and, yes, I’m very, very good in heels.

  ‘I could run a marathon in them,’ I say, and wink. My hair is in a ponytail today and the wind blows past, flicking it against my cheek.

  ‘Well, save yourself the effort today.’ He reaches for the door handle. ‘Where to?’

  I look at him blankly. It’s a fair question; one to which I have no answer. ‘I’m just going to go for a walk,’ I explain. ‘I need a coffee.’

  ‘A coffee?’ His look is one of sardonic amusement. ‘You mean that spaceship’s stopped working?’

  I shake my head. The high-end pod machine Jack’s had installed makes great coffee and we both know it. ‘Okay, you caught me. I want a pain au chocolat.’

  ‘Really?’ He grins, arching a brow. ‘A weakness for patisserie goods...interesting.’

  I shrug. ‘Certain days,’ I say in explanation.

  ‘Say no more.’

  ‘See you soon,’ I say in farewell. Then, as an afterthought, ‘Need anything?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  * * *

  So, I’ve banged her against a door in the conference room of my home office and against a window of my boardroom in the City. And while my sister-in-law was waiting in the car for me, too.

  Jesus.

  The Gemma Conundrum is getting out of hand. I woke up this morning knowing I had to apologise for yesterday, to tell her I’d regretted having sex with her the second we were done. That it had been a colossal, asshole mistake.

  And then she walked away from me and I panicked.

  Apparently Gemma only listens when I’m inside her.

  So? What? I’m going to have sex with her any time we disagree? Any time she gets annoyed?

  Amber laughs at something and I smile, but my mind is on Gemma and the promise I made her—that I’d collect on my IOU later today. The thought of not doing so makes some part of me want to shrivel up. So I accept the inevitable. We’re going to fuck again.

  My cock tightens instantly, straining against the fabric of my pants. Is she still naked beneath her dress, waiting for me? Wanting me?

  I sip my wine, and say something in response to Amber’s question—I’m amazed that any part of my brain is ticking on as normal, absorbing what’s being said and answering in kind, even while most of me is absorbed by the question of my assistant.

  I love sex. I love it because it lets me forget about Lucy and what I no longer have. But Gemma is different—because I can’t just fuck her and walk away for good. I have to see her every morning—and what if she starts to want more from me than I can possibly give?

  * * *

  ‘Hey, Grandma.’ I can’t help but smile as she answers the phone in her sunny little room.

  I hear her sip her tea and imagine her lips smiling against the bone china rim. ‘What’s up, lovey?’

  ‘Nothing’s up. How are you?’

  ‘It’s the middle of the day on Friday and you’re calling me. What’s up?’

  I shake my head, but those damned tears that have been dogging me for days are threatening to fall. I blink my eyes angrily, staring at a family as they walk past me. Mum and Dad holding hands and three small children of varying degrees of growth and rugged-upness run past, looking as though they’re being pulled back by a magnetic force when all they want is to sprint along.

  ‘And is that birdsong in the background?’

  I bite into the pain au chocolat; crumbs flake down my front. Absent-mindedly I brush them aside. ‘I’m on the Heath.’

  ‘You mean you’ve unshackled yourself from that desk?’

  I laugh. ‘Yes, Grandma. From time to time I do get out.’

  ‘Have you spoken to your mother recently?’

  I furrow my brow. Grandma is the only person on earth who understands my relationship with my parents. She understands that I love them, but in a dutiful way—they did give me life, after all. They also gave me self-doubt and insecurity and a sense that I’d never be good enough for anything other than the life they envisaged for me. Grandma tunnelled me right out of that existence, though.

  ‘Not for a week or so.’ Actually, it’s closer to a month. ‘You?’

  ‘They called yesterday. They’re in Cambodia.’

  I arch a brow, imagining my perfectly manicured, elegant mother in Cambodia, of all places. ‘I trust the Shangri-La’s penthouse is sufficient?’

  Grandma laughs. ‘Well, you know—they’re doing volunteer work.’

  I burst out laughing at this ongoing joke between us. My parents are incredibly wealthy, incredibly entitled aristocrats and they have apparently reached a point in their life where they’re bored with that and are looking to ‘make the world a better place’. So far this has involved paying a lot of money to buy shoes for children in Africa, travelling to Lithuania to learn about child smuggling and now a trip of Southern Asia to ‘help provide vaccinations’ to the poor.

  I wonder how helpful my mother—who faints at the sight of blood—and my dad—who can’t stand heat, mosquitos or poverty—are actually capable of being.

  ‘I think they’re going to cut their trip short,’ Grandma says, almost managing to keep the droll amusement out of her voice.

  ‘Oh, I’m so surprised by that.’ I fail miserably. ‘I daresay the philanthropic community of Cambodia will breathe a sigh of relief when they board their flight home.’

  ‘Yes, well... Their hearts are in the right places,’ she murmurs, and I nod.

  Perhaps.

  ‘They’d do better to donate to a foundation,’ I say. ‘Money is what these people need. And then trained staff can do their jobs without westerners assuaging their guilt over the quality of our lives getting in the way.’

  ‘Phew, that’s been building up for a while, has it?’

  ‘Sorry. I just can’t stand volunteer tourism. If I see one more photo of a schoolfriend posing with emaciated children in Africa I’m going to punch something.’

  ‘Darling, it all brings attention to good causes.’

  ‘Yeah—and it makes rich people feel better about their rarefied existence in the process.’

  ‘Mmm...’

  Grandma is nodding. I just know it.

  ‘So nothing’s going on, then?’ she asks.

  The children on the Heath are running now, and the mother and father are watching, holding hands, laughing as the littlest one tumbles down and lands in the middle of some wet grass. One of the older siblings scoops him up, cradling him and spinning in circles until the little one’s laughter peals across the grass towards me, hitting me like a slap in the face.

  I’m not clucky. I don’t want children. The agony of my own childhood is one I would never inflict on another. Oh, it’s not like I was abused or anything. My parents loved me. Loved me enough to hire only the best nannies and tutors and horse-riding coaches. To send me to the very best schools... Clue: the best schools for meeting handsome, eligible husbands-to-be.

  And they loved me enough to question my sanity when I enrolled in joint honours at Oxford and then post-grad at the LSE. But there was Grandma in the front row when I accepted my Master’s degree.

  ‘I’m just flat out,’ I say quietly. ‘Work’s crazy at the moment.’

  Grandma is quiet, taking this in. Then, ‘You’re coming for lunch tomorrow?’

  Tomorrow? Shit. It’s almost the weekend. But the idea of seeing Grandma makes my heart soar. ‘Lunch? Yeah, sure.’

  ‘And you’ll bust me out of this hellhole again? Take me out for so much champagne I get woozy and disgraceful?’

  I laugh, because the ‘hellhole’ nursing home Grandma is in
costs more per year than most people earn in a lifetime and is the last word in luxury. She has a personal butler, for crying out loud. But the staff there don’t entirely approve of her love of bubbles, whereas I am more than happy to serve as her occasional enabler.

  ‘Yep. You betcha.’

  I stand up, giving one last look at the family as they move over the crest of a hill and disappear out of sight, then I walk across the grass, making my way to the gate nearest the lane that leads to Jack’s mansion.

  I try not to think about whether Jack will be in the office when I get back.

  Chapter Six

  IT’S JUST AS well I’m busy. Between running one last glance over the Wyndham contracts, checking the files I’ll need and locking down the details for Australia, responding to some urgent emails and looking at some high-level staff CVs for the foundation, the day passes quickly.

  It is evening before I know it and I am still at my desk.

  My phone bleeps just as I’m packing up.

  I’m in the City. Hughes will bring you here when you’re done.

  I read the text three times, my bemusement growing with each moment. True, I’d basically begged him to fuck me earlier that day, but this is hardly a masterpiece in flirtation and seduction.

  Do you need me for something?

  I fire the message back, lifting my bag over my shoulder and switching the lights off at the door.

  You know what I need you for.

  I don’t reply. I don’t know why. But I make my way outside and smile at Hughes—possibly the only guy in the company who works hours as long as Jack and mine. He doesn’t have a family. He was in the army and returned from three tours of Iraq ready for a change. He’s smart, safe and we trust him implicitly.

  We.

  I do that a lot, but I don’t mean ‘we’ in a romantic sense. It’s just that we’ve almost become partners over the years without either of us realising it.

  ‘I’m meeting Jack at his place in the City,’ I murmur.

  When I was sixteen my dad caught Roger Cranston and me fooling around in the kitchen. I was so mortified with embarrassment that I spent the next week making up elaborate stories that would explain exactly why Roger had been kneeling in front of me, my skirt pushed up my legs.

  He dropped a pen and...um...I was reaching for another...

  I feel that now. That same sense of embarrassment—like I’ve been caught doing completely the wrong thing and need to explain. To Hughes, of all people.

  My cheeks flush pink and I don’t meet his eye. ‘I need some documents signed.’

  He pulls the door open and smiles. ‘Long day?’

  ‘Yeah, you could say that.’ I sit down, careful not to flash my naked self to him, then sink back into the leather seat.

  I read the news on my phone as we drive, catching up on what I’ve missed while I’ve had my head down the Jack Grant wormhole all day, and discover that a police manhunt has ended with the suspect being shot, and that a chain of supermarkets is at risk of bankruptcy.

  We’re at his apartment block quickly, though, and the door opens to the familiar bank of lifts. Hughes presses a button, then swipes a keycard so that I’m granted access to the floor Jack’s penthouse is on.

  ‘Thanks. Goodnight, Hughes.’

  ‘Goodnight, ma’am.’

  I laugh. ‘You know I hate it when you call me that.’

  The doors swish closed on his wink.

  I’m still smiling when the lift opens—but it’s transformed into a frown of curiosity as I step into Jack’s place. A couple of lights are on, casting an ambient glow, but otherwise it’s dark. There are lights coming from beyond the glass and, curious, I walk towards it.

  ‘Hey.’

  Jack’s voice comes from down the hallway and I turn to see him emerging from one of the rooms, a towel knotted loosely around his waist.

  ‘I didn’t know you were on your way.’

  My eyes have dropped to his bare chest. To its rhythmic rise and fall as he breathes, to the smooth tan that covers him and the hint of ink I can see above the towel.

  I swallow, my throat dry, and force myself to meet his eyes. ‘How was your day?’ Crisp, professional. Safe, good.

  ‘Fine.’

  He unwraps the towel, uncaring of his spectacular nudity, and brings it to his hair, towelling it dry. He’s semi-hard, and God knows I want to jump him then and there.

  But I don’t. I’m not sure why, but something holds me immobile.

  ‘Good meeting with Amber?’

  ‘Yeah. You were right about her. She’s a good pick for the job.’

  ‘I think she’s got the perfect combination of experience and passion.’

  His nod is droll. ‘She sure has, Miss Picton. Cocktail first?’

  Damn it. I like the way he says that. It’s such a formal name, but when he says it I sound like a courtesan or something.

  ‘First?’ I can’t help teasing.

  He drops the towel, hooking it around his body once more, and I’m glad even though it means I can’t perve at him so easily. It stops my blood from simmering itself into a fever state.

  ‘First. As in first, before I fuck you senseless.’ He grins, pulling me to him.

  Something about this feels so right, and it should feel wrong. And awkward. I shake my head, my eyes dropping to the floor before I remember that I’ve known Jack for two years and that whatever happens we work together and I won’t be cowered by him and what we are.

  ‘Cocktails sound perfect.’

  His smile is a flicker and then, his eyes holding mine, his smile just a smudge across his handsome face, he lifts my dress with the same reverence a groom might lift his bride’s veil and finds my nakedness.

  He groans approvingly. ‘You’ve been waiting for me all day?’ His hands curve around my butt, pulling me tight to him.

  ‘Well, you did tear my underpants,’ I point out.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ His voice shows that he is anything but.

  He releases me and I have to stifle a noise of impatience, watching as he saunters into the kitchen and pulls something from the freezer. It’s a bottle, but I don’t recognise it—nor the label. He shakes it, then opens the top. As he pours it into two glasses I realise that it has a thickened consistency, like a Frozen Coke.

  I taste it tentatively, my eyes latched to his. ‘Cherry?’ I raise my brows, taking another sip.

  ‘It’s my new favourite flavour.’

  My cheeks glow pink to rival the drink. ‘Mine, too.’

  ‘Good to see we’re both re-evaluating our opinions,’ he says with a wink. Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Busy.’ I don’t want to talk about work. We do enough of that. ‘I spoke to my grandma and sat on the Heath, though.’

  He laughs. ‘Am I not giving you enough to do?’

  I shoot him a look of dismissal. ‘It was a short break.’

  ‘I’m kidding.’ His eyes are thoughtful. ‘You never talk about your family.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I retort, perhaps too quickly. ‘Just not with you.’

  ‘I see. Why not?’

  I’m pretty sure I’m scowling at him. ‘Well, for starters, because up until recently our relationship has never remotely veered away from the professional...’

  ‘That’s not true. You’ve seen me naked. You wake me up most days.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Thoughts of his body sprawled over his bed make my blood simmer. ‘You’re my boss...’

  ‘Then take it as a command.’

  The thought of Jack commanding me is instantly memorable. My lungs are filled with thick, hot air.

  ‘A command? You’re my boss—not royalty.’

  He shrugs. ‘Is there a difference? Tell me about your grandmother.’

  I laugh. A soft sound of disbelief. ‘My grandmother? That’s really what you want to talk about right now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He sips his drink, his eyes locked
to mine. It’s a challenge! Just like always, he’s finding my boundaries and pushing at them with a persistence I find hard to ignore. And I do like to rise to his challenges.

  ‘Grandma is one of a kind,’ I say after the smallest of pauses. ‘Revolutionary. She worked until well into her seventies and has always been my biggest ally. She encourages me to push myself as hard as I can in everything I do.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘For work? She was a nurse. Still is, actually.’ My lips twitch. ‘Just last month she saved a man in her nursing home after he had a heart attack. She threw off her cardigan and performed CPR until the staff got there.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re just as proud of her as she is of you.’

  ‘Mmm...’ I make a smooth noise of agreement, absent-mindedly running my fingers over the bones of my wrist.

  His eyes catch the gesture and he steps around the bench towards me. Before I can guess what he’s planning he dribbles some cherry daiquiri from his glass onto the skin I’ve just rubbed, then brings his lips to it, sucking it and kissing me gently.

  ‘I’m sorry about this.’

  Jack? Sorry? That’s a novelty.

  My heart squeezes at his gentle admission. My voice is soft when I speak. ‘I told you, it doesn’t hurt.’

  ‘The bruising would say otherwise.’

  I shrug, but the way his mouth is moving over me is making thought difficult. ‘I’m fine. I would have told you if I didn’t like it, believe me.’

  ‘I do.’

  He brings my thumb to his mouth and sucks on it. I shudder; the pleasure rips through me.

  ‘So? What do you like? Usually?’

  ‘With other men?’ I clarify, and there is a strange darkening of his features before he wipes them clear and nods.

  ‘Yes.’

  I tilt my head to the side. ‘Oh, you know—kinky shit.’

  ‘Such as...?’

  It’s a calm, measured response beyond what I expect.

  ‘I’ll show you soon.’

  He clears his throat. ‘You bet your sweet arse, you will.’ He grins and sips his drink once more.

  ‘Anyway,’ I ask throatily, ‘what do you like? With other women? Or is the only prerequisite that they submit to your wham-bam, thank you, ma’am form of sex?’