Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Steepling my fingers to my desk, I loom over it. “When,” I demand. “When did you have this conversation with Polly?” I’m not sure how El comes into this. I’ve already told her this is a business I’m running, not a charity.
“Your knickers are awfully bunched this morning.” El gives a sly smile.
“I’ll fucking choke you with them if you don’t answer me.”
“That’s more his thing,” he says, hooking a thumb in Brin’s direction.
“Piss off,” he huffs. “I’m not going anywhere near his grundies. For the record, they were her knickers,” he somehow feels the need to qualify. “My date’s, and it wasn’t my mouth they were in.”
“When,” I grate out. “When did you discuss this with Mother dearest.” Why the hell did she speak to him? El has nothing to do with the Valentes unless… The fist around my heart eases a little. This is a strength in numbers thing. Get my brothers on my case to see if they can wear me down.
“You’re asking when did I learn about the lovely Amelia?”
“I thought she was ugly,” Brin mutters, but neither of us pays him any attention.
“When I saw her downstairs in reception this morning.”
“Mum was here?” And she didn’t appear in my office to continue her campaign?
Mischief flickers across El’s face. Somehow, I know what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth.
“Not Mum. Amelia. She was there getting the welcome to VirTu. If I’d known, I would’ve volunteered for the job because…” He does this weird teeth-kissing thing as he shakes his head slowly.
“So she doesn’t look like a can of squashed dicks?”
“I’d like to squash her full of—”
“Shut the hell up, both of you!” I yell.
My skin goes cold, which is odd because my blood feels like it’s fast approaching its boiling point. Somewhere in the distance, I hear El begin to laugh. A great big belly laugh, like a department store Santa Claus. Fake, annoying, and deserving of a punch. But he gets a reprieve—they both do—at the sharp yet familiar wrap of knuckles against my office door. I lift my head at the intrusion, my personal assistant’s voice precedes her waddling bulk. The woman is the size of a boat these days. She’s got to be a health and safety hazard.
“…and this is the monster’s lair.”
“Jody, we’re in the middle of something.”
“Too bad you didn’t put it on your calendar,” she answers casually, not giving a flying fuck. A manila folder held between her fingertips, she casually flicks her wrist in my direction. “And here would be the monster. And it looks like he’s in a charming mood today.”
The door slides a little farther open to reveal the five-foot-eight-inches of golden gorgeousness I hoped never to see again. And now I’m lying to myself, as some kind of primeval recognition zips down my spine. Out of all the people in this room, I’m the one who knows how beautiful this woman looks when she comes. The thought curls warmly in my gut, snug and satisfied as my eyes eat up every inch of her.
I watch as her pink-glossed lips quiver uncertainly before a tentative smile breaks free. Jesus Christ, Mimi Valente grew up. Grew up and out in all the right places. Not that it matters because I made a promise. A promise I haven’t broken yet.
Technically.
“Hello, Whit.” Her voice is almost as husky as the last time she’d uttered my name. Whit! Oh God, Whit! “How are you?”
Me? Oh, I’m just going to hell…
3
MIMI
For the second time in as many weeks in the presence of Leif Whittington, I lock my knees to keep them from giving out. When I’d visualized this moment (and I have at least a dozen times this morning alone), my knees didn’t knock. They’re not knocking now, either. It’s more a case of one look at his hot self, and my whole body begins to pulse and tingle, nerve endings and pleasure points flashing like a dang pinball machine. I guess longtime unrequited lust will do that to a girl. The man was the object of my teenage fantasies and the stuff of my later much more X-rated imaginings, though nothing could top what happened in his apartment. I’ve never come so hard before and never fully clothed!
It’s safe to say that since my dark taste of his reality, my fascination has only increased. Show Daddy what he wants. I almost melted hearing those words in that voice. In fact, I think my brain might’ve experienced a little meltdown because it’s all I can think of when I look at him.
Jeez Louise, get your mind out of the gutter, Mimi. I barely recognize my own thoughts these days. It’s certainly true we’re not in Florida anymore, Toto.
Whit’s corner office, natch, is three times the size of my first apartment. But then, my first (and only ever) apartment was above my parents' garage. Decorated in shades of gray, navy, and black with the occasional streak of white, the color palette might’ve been inspired by the London skyline frames by the wall of windows. A meeting space dominates one corner, the table a white-gray marble, the eight black chairs around it appearing to have been designed to encourage brevity over comfort. A monochrome rug denotes a more welcoming space with two low leather sofas flanking a matching coffee table. One wall houses library-style cabinetry of midnight blue, and an old-fashioned ladder connects to a brass rail above. The floor and walls are dark and the artwork atmospheric, and in the center of it all is a monolithic stone desk—a piece of art in itself. Behind it stands Whit, and behind him is the city of London. He is a picture of masculinity, sexiness in shirtsleeves, and master of all he surveys.