Promised

‘I live with my elderly grandmother.’ I don’t know why I say elderly, maybe to justify my living arrangement. ‘Camden.’

A look of surprise flits across his perfect brow. ‘Tell your grandmother you’ll be back tomorrow night. What’s the address?’

‘What will I say?’ I ask, suddenly panicked. I’ve never stayed out for a whole night, and no plausible reason to do so now is coming to me.

‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’ He stands, putting his hand out to me, and I take it, letting him pull me to my feet.

‘No, you don’t understand.’ This will be impossible to pull off. ‘I don’t stay out at night. She’ll never believe me if I try to fob her off with anything other than the truth, and I can’t tell her about you.’ I’ll kill her off with shock. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe she’ll dance around the kitchen, clapping her hands and thanking the Lord. Knowing Nan, it’ll be the latter.

‘You never go out?’ he frowns.

‘No.’ I fake nonchalance to within an inch of my life.

‘And you’ve never stayed out overnight? Not even at a girlfriend’s?’

I’ve never been embarrassed by my lifestyle . . . until now. I suddenly feel young, naive and inexperienced, which is ridiculous. I need to locate my long-lost sass. While he’s promised me mind-blowing sex, what does he get out of it, because I’m certainly no sex kitten who’ll rock his bed. A man like this must have women forming a queue at his front door, all kitted out in satin or lace, all in stilettos and all ready to send him wild with desire.

I shake my head, looking down to the ground. ‘Remind me why you want to do this again.’

‘If you’re speaking to me, isn’t it polite to look at me?’ He tips my chin up. ‘You don’t seem like a self-doubter.’

‘I’m not usually.’

‘What’s changed?’

‘You.’

That one word makes him shift uncomfortably, and I immediately regret saying it. ‘Me?’

My head drops again. ‘I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’

‘I’m not uncomfortable,’ he argues quietly, ‘but now I’m wondering whether this is a good idea.’

My head snaps up, panicked that he might withdraw his offer. ‘No, I want to do this.’ I don’t know what I’m saying but it doesn’t stop me from babbling on some more. ‘I want twenty-four hours with you.’ I step into his chest and look up to his eyes – the ones I’m going to lose myself in very soon, if I haven’t already. ‘I need this.’

‘Why do you need it, Livy?’

‘I need it to show myself that I’ve been doing things wrong for too long.’ I brave a kiss and reach up on my tiptoes to push my lips to his, hoping I’ll remind him of what it felt like last time, hoping he experienced the surge of energy, too. Before I can even think to engage my tongue, I’m wrapped in his arms and being pulled up to his chest, our mouths fused, our bodies bonded, my heart falling further. His lips on mine and his hard body coating me feels . . . right.

‘Are you sure?’ He removes me from his embrace, holding me at arm’s length and hunkering down to ensure he’s got my eyes and my attention. ‘I’ve made clear how it’ll be, Livy. If you can deal with that, then for the next twenty-four hours, it’s just us – my body and your body doing incredible things.’

I nod my head convincingly, even though I’m not at all sure. I can see doubt lingering on his stunning face, which pushes me to force a smile, worried that he might pull out on our deal. I might not know what I’m doing, but I certainly don’t know what I’ll do if he walks away from me now.

‘Okay,’ he says, sliding his hand around my nape and pulling me into him. ‘I’ll take you home.’ He starts to guide me from the square, his palm secured firmly on my neck as he pushes me onward. I glance up to him, just to check he’s there – to check that I’m not dreaming.

He’s there, and he’s gazing down at me, assessing me, probably analysing my mental state. Should I ask him his conclusion because I haven’t the foggiest? All I know is that he’s mine for the next twenty-four hours, and I am his. I just hope that I don’t find myself in further desolation once my time is up. I’m ignoring the voice in my head, currently screaming at me to stop this right now. I know how this’ll turn out, and it’s likely to be messy.

But I just can’t refuse him. Or myself.

Chapter 6

‘I’ll wait here for you.’ He pulls up outside my house and takes his phone from his pocket, waving it at me. ‘I have a few calls to make.’

He’s going to wait? And he’s going to wait outside my house? No, no he can’t. Bloody hell, Nan’s probably sniffed him out already. I look up to the bay window at the front of our house, watching for twitching curtains. ‘I can get a cab to your place,’ I try, making a mental list of things I need to do once I get inside – shower, shave . . . everywhere, moisturise, spritz, make-up . . . tell the fattest lie I ever will.

‘No.’ He dismisses my offer without even looking at me. ‘I’ll wait. Go get your things.’

I wince, letting myself out of his car and walking slowly, cautiously, up the path to my house, like Nan might hear me if I go any faster. I insert my key slowly. I turn it slowly. I push the door open slowly. I lift my foot slowly, ready to step inside, clenching my teeth when the door creaks.

Damn.

Nan’s standing three feet away, her arms folded, her foot tapping the patterned carpet. ‘Who’s that man?’ she asks, her grey eyebrows raising. ‘And why are you behaving like a cat burglar, hmmm?’

‘He’s my boss.’ I blurt the words fast, and so begins the fattest lie I’ll ever tell. ‘I’m working tonight. He’s brought me home to change.’

I definitely see a wave of disappointment travel across her age-worn face. ‘Oh, well . . .’ She turns, losing interest in the man outside immediately. ‘I won’t bother with supper then.’

‘Okay.’ I take the stairs two at a time and burst into the bathroom, cranking the shower on and stripping down at lightning speed. Then I dive in before it’s warmed up. ‘Oh shit!’ I pin myself to the side, goose pimples invading me, my body shivering uncontrollably. ‘Shit, shit shit! Warm up!’ My hand hovers under the spray, and I’m frantically egging the hot water on. ‘Come on, come on.’

After far too long, it’s just warm enough to bear, and I step under, making super-fast work of washing my hair, soaping everywhere and shaving . . . everywhere. By the time I’ve sprinted across the landing in my towel and made it into the safety of my room, I’m out of breath. Under normal circumstances, it usually takes me ten minutes flat to throw some clothes on, give my face a quick brush over with some powder, and rough dry my hair. But now I care; now I want to look nice. And I haven’t got bloody time to do it.

‘Underwear,’ I prompt myself, hurrying over to my drawers and yanking the top one open, instantly grimacing at the piles of cotton knickers and bras. I must have something – anything other than cotton, please!

After five minutes of assessing each and every piece of underwear I own, I find that I am, in fact, a cotton girl, with no lace, satin, or leather in sight. I knew that, but maybe I thought a sexy pair of something might magic their way into my drawer to save me from underwear humiliation. I was wrong, but with little else to do, I pull on my white cotton knickers and matching boring bra before blasting my hair, brushing some powder across my face and pinching my cheeks.

And now I’m staring at my satchel and wondering what I need to pack. I have no lingerie or stilettos, or anything remotely sexy. What was I thinking? What was he thinking? I drop my backside on the edge of the bed and my head in my hands, my heavy hair falling forward and forming a waterfall to my knees. I should stay here and hope he gets fed up with waiting and leaves, because all of a sudden, this doesn’t seem like such a good idea. In fact, it’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever had, and happy with that conclusion I crawl under the covers of my bed and hide my face in a pillow.

He’s rich, he’s stunning, he’s refined, if a bit stand-offish, and he wants me for twenty-four hours? He needs his head tested. These thoughts plague my mind as I hide from the world, until I reach a perfectly solid conclusion; he must have arm candy throwing themselves at his feet daily – hell, I’ve seen one already – and they must all be dripping in diamonds, designer handbags and shoes that cost more than my monthly wage, so maybe he wants to try something a little different, something like me – an average waitress, who buggers up coffee and throws trays of expensive champagne everywhere. I push my face further into the pillow and groan. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid woman.’

‘No you’re not.’

I bolt upright and see him sitting in the armchair in the corner of my room, legs crossed at the ankles, his elbow resting on the arm, his chin in his palm. ‘What the hell?’ I jump up and run to my bedroom door, swinging it open to check for old ears pushed up against the wood. Nothing, but I don’t feel any better. Nan must have let him in. ‘How did you get up here?’ I slam the door and flinch when it reverberates through the house.

He doesn’t. He’s perfectly collected, not in the least bit affected by my flustered state. ‘Your grandmother should take security a little more seriously.’ He rubs his index finger slowly across his stubbled chin, his eyes taking a leisurely jaunt down my body.

It’s only now I realise that I’m standing in my underwear, and my arms instinctively cross over my chest, attempting in vain to conceal my modesty from his roving eye. I’m horrified, even more so when his lips tip at the edge and his eyes sparkle as they land on mine.

‘You’d better lose your bashfulness, Livy.’ He stands, casually strolling over to me, sliding his hands in his grey trouser pockets. His chest meets mine, and he looks down at me, not touching with his hands, but touching with absolutely everything else. ‘Then again, I quite like your shyness.’

I’m shaking – physically shaking, and no amount of pep talking is halting it. I want to appear confident, nonchalant and carefree, but I don’t know where to start. Decent underwear might be a good place.

He bends down, getting his face in the line of my dropped sight, and pulls my falling hair from my shoulders, holding it from my face. Lifting my gaze, only very slightly, I quickly find his. ‘My twenty-four hours don’t start until I get you in my bed.’

I feel my brow completely furrow. ‘You’re really going to time it?’ I ask, wondering if he’ll produce a stopwatch.

‘Well.’ One of his hands drops my hair, and he looks down at his expensive watch. ‘It’s six-thirty now. By the time I get you uptown in rush hour, it’ll be approximately seven-thirty. I have a charity ball tomorrow evening around seven-thirty, so I’ve timed this just perfectly.’

Yes, he has timed it perfectly. So when the clock strikes seven-thirty, do I get tossed out on my arse? Do I turn into a pumpkin? I feel jilted already and we haven’t even started, so what am I going to feel like come seven-thirty tomorrow evening? Like shit, that’s what – rejected, unworthy, depressed and abandoned. I open my mouth to call a stop on the whole diabolical arrangement, but then I hear the sound of old footsteps clumping up the stairs.

‘Oh shit, my nan’s coming!’ My palms meet his suit-covered chest and push into him, guiding him back towards a built-in cupboard. I’m panicking, but I’m still appreciating the solidness beneath my flat palms. It makes my steps falter and my heart jump wildly. I glance up at him.