Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
“Absolutely.” I force another smile, washing down the insincerity with a swallow of whisky because I can’t imagine our guest insulted our father or our parentage. Or insist the only good thing about us is our name.
As Isla’s hand slides away, she shifts in the low light, and I notice for the first time how pale she looks. The shadows under her eyes almost like bruises. There is most certainly something going on with her, something more than an argument with her husband.
And, like a colossal prick, I just expected her to play hostess tonight.
A twinge of guilt pierces my chest. When I’d pressed her this afternoon, she’d insisted we didn’t have time to talk about it. Even the boys weren’t very forthcoming when usually they’re bursting to fill me in with their news. Though I sense their reticence has something to do with the missing marble statue from the reception hall.
It’s been a strange homecoming. Even the staff seem out of sorts, I consider as I catch McCain’s irritated expression from across the room. I expect he’s upset because Van thought to bring Griffin with him. Though he’s barely fifty, McCain is a butler of the old school where bastard sons are never mentioned, let alone brought into the fold.
Sensing our guest is getting to the punchline, I nod amiably, wondering why he hasn’t bothered to see if Isla’s hand is stuck up my arse, working me like a puppet. It could be because the man has a deep sense of his own importance and a love of the sound of his own voice. Or perhaps he thinks I’m the idiot product of inbreeding. Fuck, what do I care? Provided the money continues to roll in, I can nod and smile like an idiot quite happily for him.
But what the hell is wrong with McCain? If Griffin is winding up Chrissy again . . .
I turn my head, following the rapid path of my butler, watching as his eyes widen, his next step a long one as though to prevent—
—an almighty crash, flying glass and metal. Food, too. And my eyes seeing things. Seeing people they shouldn’t see. People, or a person, more correctly, who isn't really here.
“Oh, my goodness!” Isla’s champagne cocktail spills from her glass, wet droplets clinging to the sleeve of my jacket.
“Are you all right?” I steady the glass in her hand. Actually, no, she’s pushing it at me.
“Excuse me,” she says, smiling at our guests and ignoring the way my hand catches her wrist, how it tightens on it. We have staff for that, I hope it says, not help me, I’m seeing things.
Seeing someone I want but can’t have.
Seeing her on her knees.
In a frilly apron.
Right here, in my ancestral home.
My gaze follows my sister as she tersely suggests to a very dignified McCain that he might help clear up the mess.
“Come with me.” My voice is gruff, my fingers closing around the crook of Holland’s upper arm before I’d even realised I’d crossed the room.
I’m not seeing things. And neither is she, though she looks almost stunned as she drops the last of the whatever those balls are to McCain’s cupped hands.
“Just a case of butterfingers,” I mutter to those who care to hear my explanation as I drag the object of my recent—current?—obsession from the room without even looking at her.
I can’t. I dare not. Not until I get her alone.
What the hell is she doing here? I feel elated. Angry. Unsure which of these is the overriding sentiment.
“There’s no need to drag me,” she hisses as we approach the threshold of the open double doors.
“Close them behind us,” I command of Sophie, the timid young girl who works as part of Chrissy’s team. The girl looks terrified, her gaze sliding to Holland as she tries to pry her fingers under mine. Holland, however, doesn’t look terrified. She looks gloriously livid. It’s an expression that does very little to dampen my cock’s apparent enthusiasm for this moment. “Tell McCain,” I further direct Sophie, “to push back dinner by half an hour.”
A lot can happen in thirty minutes, given a little peace and privacy.
Fuck yes, it can.
21
Holly
Just one more kiss. One more time with him.
The air still and slightly musty, old leather and even older books, overlaid by the lingering scent of tobacco. Brass glints in the moonlight, drawing my eyes higher as I realise the room has a mezzanine level. There must be so many books, I find myself thinking, but I’m just hiding. Hiding from my thoughts.
How can it be him?
How can it be Alexander?
He steps into an arc of moonlight, slicing silver through the open drapes.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he murmurs, his gaze falling to where I rub my upper arm.
I shake my head. It’s not that my arm hurts, but more like I’m suddenly very cold. Maybe my body has gone into a state of shock. A minute ago, my cheeks were burning hot with shame as dozens of little balls of deliciousness hurtled through the air—I even saw one drop into a champagne glass in a guest’s hand. And why? Because my stupid eyes had convinced me of the impossible. No way Alexander could be here, standing in a kilt. I mean, the man isn’t even Scottish. So, I’d dropped to the floor, grabbing up those tiny balls of meat and eggs, rolling around the floor like eyeballs. I’d felt like an idiot, and my cheeks were burning as hot as Chernobyl when one bare, tan knee landed on the floor next to my hand. My eyes took in the dark wool of a kilt and lifted. Then lifted again.