Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“You’re beautiful.”
A staccato knock at the door makes me jump, but Ben holds me in place with his hand and his stare. “My driver,” he says.
“We should go,” I reply, my voice weak from our proximity.
His chest lifts and lowers. I sweep my palm up his shirt.
He nods, takes my hand, and moves back toward the exit.
“One second,” I say, seeing the mirror by the doorway. I pull my lipstick from my bag.
When I’m done, I turn to him, and he’s looking at me, a question in his eyes.
“I was hoping you’d kiss me, so I didn’t put my lipstick on,” I say in explanation. The cherry red is a contrast to my black silk dress, and it stops the outfit from feeling funereal. If it smudges, I’m in trouble. I’ll look like I have a shellfish allergy and just made out with a crab.
“You wanted me to kiss you,” he says—not a question, just an observation.
“Of course,” I reply.
He holds the door open.
“Is there anything you want me to say or bring up tonight?” I ask as I exit the house.
“About what?”
“I don’t know. What do you think you need to get him to agree to sell the hotels to you?”
He blinks once, then twice; it’s like he’s trying to say something but can’t quite find the words. “Leave me to worry about that.” He holds the car door open for me. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it feels like the atmosphere turned a little frosty. I’m not quite sure if it’s because he’s nervous, because I wanted him to kiss me, or something else.
“You’ll never guess what I did this morning.” We get into the car and I tell him about my morning stalking Daniel De Luca with Melanie on speaker, and how I got completely soaked.
He doesn’t say or do anything.
I slip my hand into his and squeeze. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Just a lot on my mind. How’s Melanie?”
I almost tell him she’s deranged because she thinks I’m in love with him, but I decide against it. I don’t want him to think I’m not only Daniel De Luca’s groupie but his too. “She’s fine. Keeping New York warm for me.”
“New York. You’ll be back there soon.” His gaze is fixed ahead as if he’s driving. He looks a little solemn.
“Hey.” I drop my hand and stroke my fingers over his cheekbone. “You want to talk about it?”
He glances at me and my stomach flips. Just from a look. I might not be in love with him, but that damn lust fairy is working overtime.
“How can I cheer you up?” I ask. “You seem tense.”
“Just be yourself. I’m better now you’re here.”
The idea I could lift whatever burden he carries warms me. “What else can I do?” I push my hand back into his and curl my fingers, locking them together.
“I hate that I’ve had to ask you to do this. I sort of hate that we have to go through this pretense again. I’m not sure . . .”
“I offered, remember? I’m happy to come along. I’ll have a wonderful time.” I don’t say it, but I can’t help thinking that we’re not pretending. Okay, so we’re not engaged, but we’re romantically linked. Even if it’s only for the last few days of me being here in London.
“But you should be enjoying London. And I . . .” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He releases his seat belt and for a moment I think he’s going to pull me onto his lap or something, but I realize the car has stopped.
“We’re here,” he says.
He undoes my seat belt for me and we get out of the car.
“It’s this one,” he says, nodding at the grand town house in front of us. The imposing black double doors are flanked by white columns, and the stoop is covered in pretty black-and-white tiles. Because it’s a town house, it’s not clear where the house begins and ends, but I can see it goes up about four or five floors. It surprises me a little that it’s right on the street. Surely anyone could knock on the door.
Grant opens the door and we’re shown into a huge formal living room. I can see the duchess’s influence in the room’s pretty feminine details: walls of duck-egg blue with gold-framed paintings hung close together; two huge chandeliers drip with light, emphasizing the elaborate crown molding and intricate plasterwork on the ceiling. As we’re being offered drinks, the duchess arrives. Her hair is swept up in an elegant chignon, and she’s wearing a black, knee-length cocktail dress. What I’m wearing looks like it could have come from the same person’s wardrobe, and I relax slightly. The first part of my role is complete; at least I look the part.
“Let’s have champagne,” she says. “We can celebrate your engagement.” She puts up her hand. “I’m not pressuring you to decide, but I just want to tell you that our offer to host the engagement party or reception still stands.”