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‘Okay! Sheesh, don’t get your panties in a twist,’ she said, trying to inject the lightness back into the conversation that had been comprehensively lost—and get the desperate excitement of being wanted, being cherished, out of her system.
‘Fine,’ he murmured, the rough laugh echoing in her heart. ‘I’ll see you at the penthouse at seven-thirty,’ he said. ‘Prepare for your panties to be history by seven thirty-one.’
Bronte stared at the phone after he had ended the call, her heart jolting in her chest like a jackhammer.
‘Is everything okay, dear?’ Maureen asked as she hung up Bronte’s coat.
Bronte shoved the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Yes,’ she said.
But her galloping pulse and her trembling fingers told a different story.
* * *
‘Mr Blackstone,’ Lisa greeted Lukas as he stepped out of the penthouse elevator. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Of course,’ he said, unable to hide his smile as he tucked his phone into his jacket pocket. Only four hours until he would see Bronte again. Yesterday had been torture. Even though he had come to enjoy the trips he made to see the boy—Nico was a smart, funny and fascinating kid who had somehow wormed his way into Lukas’s affections—being with Bronte and not being able to touch her was a special form of torture.
Take that moment at the end of his visit to Regent’s Park yesterday, when he’d been bidding Nico and Bronte goodbye. Stifling the urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her off to the nearest bedroom had nearly killed him.
Tonight he was fixing at least some of his frustration. Tonight she was staying with him the entire night, and he was not going to countenance any more arguments on the subject. If it came to it, he actually was prepared to tie her to the bed.
He understood her devotion to Nico. He was pretty damn devoted to the kid too now. But no harm would be done by having the boy taken to Nursery by Maureen a few mornings a week.
He hated watching her drag herself out of their bed in the middle of the night after he’d exhausted her. The last time she’d been to see him, he’d actually regretted the sex he’d initiated in the shower. What with keeping their liaison a secret from everyone but his most trusted employees and the need to limit his access to her, he was making enough compromises already. It was starting to fuel a need to see her, to be with her, that didn’t feel all that healthy.
When was the last time he’d rung up a woman in the middle of the day and harassed her to come over to his place? Or contemplated dropping an important finance meeting to see her? But he knew if she’d given him the go-ahead he would have been in his car within ten seconds flat.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, sir?’ Lisa asked as they headed down the corridor towards the meeting room.
‘Yes, why do you ask?’ he said, noticing her astonished expression for the first time.
‘You just took the elevator down to the office instead of the emergency stairs.’
He frowned, the observation giving him pause. ‘I didn’t have time to take the stairs,’ he said, but couldn’t help the prickle of unease at Lisa’s revelation.
He always avoided elevators. Just like he had always insisted on having his living spaces open-plan and full of as much natural light as was humanly possible.
He hated to be crowded or to feel confined. The mechanical hiss of elevator doors closing had always unnerved him. But as he’d been absorbed in his call with Bronte, he’d walked into the metal box without even thinking about what he was doing.
And the usual cold sweat, the usual grinding fear hadn’t materialised, because he’d been way too distracted by the sound of her voice, and the thought of her wandering the streets without the necessary protection.
‘Have you got the report from Clinton on the final figures for the Maldives launch?’ he asked, cutting off Lisa’s line of questioning. Just because he’d been able to ride in an elevator for the first time in... Well, for ever. It did not have to be significant.
‘Yes, Mr Blackstone.’ Lisa handed the report over, looking almost as flustered as he felt.
He flicked through the pages until he got to the final profit and loss calculation, but as he stared at the figures he couldn’t seem to remember the projected calculations he would usually have on instant recall to compare with the final ones.
The pulse of heat, which hadn’t quite subsided since he’d threatened to tie Bronte to the bed, echoed in his groin.
Forcing himself to focus—on something other than Bronte—he walked into the meeting room ahead of Lisa and dumped the printout on the large walnut wood table. The executives he’d insisted travel to London from his landmark hotels in New York, Paris, Sydney and Hong Kong all jumped.
‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks for making the trip,’ he said and then stalled—as a vision of Bronte, laughing in the garden yesterday afternoon as he attempted to pitch the ball to Nico, blasted into his brain like a shaft of pure sunshine. He could still recall her unruly hair, that beautiful mix of auburn and russet and strawberry blonde, sticking out from under the ball cap he’d bought for her. Her smoky chuckle had rippled across his skin and made his heart thunder against his ribs.
His chest tightened and he lost his train of thought as his executives all stared back at him with a mixture of concern and expectation on their faces.
Dammit, Blackstone. Stop thinking about her.
But he couldn’t focus; he couldn’t even seem to remember what the heck these people were here to do. All he could focus on was Bronte and how much he’d wanted to hold her in that moment, to gather her up in his arms and kiss her senseless. And despite the surge of arousal that accompanied the thought, the desire, the need felt like more than that—wrapping around his heart like a warm blanket and smothering the monsters which had lurked for so long in dark corners.
