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‘Feel free to stop by anytime.’ What the hell has gotten into me?
Her eyebrows raise. ‘If I feel like being run over, then I know where to come.’ Her grin inflates my balls.
And something deep and unfamiliar stirs inside me.
Want.
After throwing on some jeans and a T-shirt, I grab my keys and head out to my truck. And damn, I’m excited. It’s evident in my hasty pace across the lawn. My idyllic haven will be complete with one more addition.
The dirt kicks up behind me as I race down the lane, but I find my foot easing off the accelerator without thought. Then my eyes start to scan. And before I know it, I’m crawling along at a snail’s pace, just in case any women decide to throw themselves under my truck.
I emerge from the woodland into the sunshine and pick up speed, heading into town. The turn into the grounds of the Hampton Estate is soon in sight, and the familiar coil of my muscles follows soon after. I drive faster up the cobbled driveway than I should, but . . . fuck them. I make sure I skid to a stop by the over-the-top fountain, and I make sure the Stone Roses’ ‘Resurrection’ is blaring from my stereo for a good few seconds before I shut the engine off. As anticipated, Lady Hampton appears at the drawing room window, virtually steaming the glass with her rage. I smile on the inside as I get out, heading for the front door of the west wing. I raise my fist, ready to hammer on the wood like the animal I apparently am, but it swings open before I can reaffirm what these arseholes think of me.
It’s all I can do not to bare my teeth when Darcy appears, primped and preened as perfectly as normal – her eye shadow heavy, her lips artfully painted, her black hair harsh against her pale skin. Darcy fucking Hampton. Mega bitch.
Her eyes narrow. ‘You’re early.’
‘By fifteen minutes.’
‘You’ll have to wait. She’s not long home and hasn’t finished unpacking.’ Darcy attempts to shut the door on me. Oh no.
‘Get one of your many butlers to do it, Darcy.’ I kick my booted foot out, and the wood hits my toe.
‘Ryan!’ she yells. ‘You’ll dirty the paintwork.’
I ignore her and the precious paintwork and shout past her. ‘Hey, Cabbage!’
‘Ryan, for God’s sake!’ Darcy wrestles with the door against my foot, her slick French braid losing a few strands of hair. ‘And don’t call her Cabbage.’
‘Fuck off, Darcy,’ I mutter quietly, my eyes lighting up when I hear a scuffle behind her. They’re the sounds of my girl fighting off the hands trying to make her perfect, too. And then she appears at the top of the stairs dressed in a frilly floral thing, her long brown hair in a high ponytail. What the fuck have they done to her? I disregard the state of my daughter, my smile rare but natural. ‘Hey, beautiful.’
I see her building up to a squeal, virtually shaking with excitement. ‘Dad!’ Her eyes fall to the banister. And my smile widens. Go on, my girl. Own that banister.
‘Don’t you dare, Alexandra,’ Darcy warns, marching to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Don’t . . . you . . . dare.’
My daughter’s eyes meet mine. I wink. She grins. And then she throws her leg over the banister and slides down like a pro, landing on her feet at the bottom. Darcy is forced to jump out of her way to avoid being taken off her heeled pumps. ‘For goodness’ sake!’ she shrieks, hurrying to straighten herself out.
‘Chill out, Mum,’ Alex chirps as she skips over. I quickly turn, ready, and she dives onto my back. I can still hear Darcy hissing and spitting in the background. ‘I missed you,’ Alex mumbles, bringing on an edge of guilt.
‘I missed you, too.’ I pace to the truck with her attached to my back. ‘What the hell are you wearing?’ I drop her to her feet, motioning down the monstrosity of a dress. She’s ten, for Christ’s sake. And she’s not a fucking doll.
‘Grandmother bought me it.’ Her face bunches in disgust as she grabs the skirt of the dress and twirls.
‘Lucky you.’
‘Hey, what happened to your truck?’ She points to the bumper. ‘Did you have an accident?’
I shake my head. ‘Something ran out in front of me.’
‘What?’
I stall, knowing that if I tell her the truth, there will only be more questions. And I’m not sure exactly what I’d tell her about Miss Hannah Bright. ‘A weasel,’ I say quickly. A weasel? Not a graceful deer or a cute bunny rabbit. A weasel?
‘Oh my God, did you kill it?’ The look of horror on her face is ripe.
‘No, I swerved and hit a tree.’
Her high shoulders drop in relief. ‘The poor thing. It must have been stunned.’
